


Beyond Words

by TealGirl



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: 1960's government lab setting, F/M, Interspecies Romance, Language Barrier, bog is still a bug man and not a fish man, howdy hey it's a "The Shape of Water" AU, it may go up due to sex later on hEYo, nothing too major but i want y'all to be safe!, occasionally illustrated, rating due to swearing and adult themes and a decent amount of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-05-16 16:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14815239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TealGirl/pseuds/TealGirl
Summary: Marianne Springfield lives a simple life, eking out a living for herself and her sister by working as a janitor in a top-secret government facility. Having sworn off love after her fiancé betrayed her trust, she thinks she has life and all of its cruelties figured out. However, her world becomes uprooted with the arrival of a monstrous specimen who, in spite of not speaking English, seems to understand her better than anyone else ever has. Love, dangerous and unpredictable, forms between them, and Marianne finds herself risking all she knows in order to save him.





	1. Strange

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! If you're reading this, welcome and thank you for the interest! It's been about four years since I've last written fanfiction, so it's nice to get back into it again!  
> I'm going to be taking a lot of liberties with this story, and am pretty much just setting out to give you lots of Butterfly Bog content. I'm no Del Toro though, so this isn't going to be as creative or laden with beautiful imagery and commentary. I'm also going to tone down the violence and gore of the original, which I hope will make this a friendlier read for you! That being said, this is still very much an adult story with adult themes, so please read at your discretion if you're +18 and not at all if you're younger.  
> Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy the fic!

Her eyes opened slowly, blinking away the crust of sleep before squinting shut again in protest.

It was all too harsh--the light, the cold, the _ringing…_ It was safer where she was, suspended in that bleary area between dreaming and waking. Her mind was almost blissfully blank, almost filled with nothing but the comfort of being nuzzled deep into folds of warm flannel. But goddammit, the  _ringing._

Groggily, she reached out to shut off her alarm clock. She dug her palms into her eyes with a groan, then relaxed, her gaze fixed blankly on the cracked plaster ceiling above. _C’mon…_ she told herself, an unfortunate slave to responsibility. _Time to get going. C’mon._

Her body still seemed to need convincing. She looked at the clock again, taking note of the time.

_Get up, or you won’t have time to masturbate in the shower._

That did it. With another groan, she rose out of bed.

Her apartment was quiet save for the sound of her footsteps, soft padding against the hardwood floor, and that suited her just fine. As she stretched and trudged into her morning routine, her finely-tuned senses finally began to shake off the dust of last night. She could make out occasional, muffled noises that echoed from the street below her apartment. Doors were slammed carelessly, cars sputtered and coughed into movement... Life in that world awoke just as she did: reluctantly and slowly, the same day in and out. It was almost lonely, knowing that she was in the company of such impersonal drudgery while she made her coffee. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind.

Marianne Springfield had better things to do than wallow in self pity. Like closing the damned _curtains._

Sunlight was glaring off of the collection on her wall, and as much as she loved it, she wasn’t thrilled about how it was currently conspiring with the sunrise to blind her. She slid her curtains shut. The relief was needed, but hardly noteworthy; even though she now _could_ admire the meticulously-arranged display of swords and bits of armor, she didn’t so much as glance at them. Marianne from ten months ago would’ve been outraged by such apathy. She had spent ages acquiring and maintaining and polishing those weapons, which wasn’t to mention the hours of research and practice she poured into learning to use them properly. At one point, she at least might’ve taken the time to appreciate the fact that, thanks to moving out, she _could_ pursue these interests without criticism. Over time, however, the blessed improvement had become the expected norm. Everything was simply in its place, predictable and mundane and not on her mind. She was too busy gathering up her uniform and heading to the bathroom.

The mirror, for some reason, was the first thing to truly snare more than a cursory glance from her that morning. Upon confronting her own reflection, her eyebrows furrowed as if to say, " _oh, it's **you** again_." Marianne braced her arms on the edge of the sink and leaned forward, examining herself with a suspicious sort of care. Brown eyes flecked with gold stared back at her tiredly, her fingers just a bit too long to be normal as they attempted to restore some order to her short, mussed hair. She should cut it again soon; ever since the travesty of her would-be wedding day, she'd sworn to keep it short, though it wasn't just a matter of principal. She loved the  wild, untamable edge it gave her . Other people had been less than supportive of her decision, calling it “rash” and “emotional,” which to be fair, it _had_ been. But of course, their biggest beef with her decision was likely that it was too bold, too out-of-fashion and unfeminine.

She snorted at the thought. It was a choice she stood by wholeheartedly.

Satisfied, she turned her head to the side and brushed a few locks away. Her ears were revealed, and they still came to an odd, slight point...not that she had expected them to have somehow changed overnight, of course. Averting her eyes, she attempted to return her focus to getting ready for work. She tugged her nightgown off over her head and let it fall carelessly to the floor, then began running water for her shower.

She was toweling off not long after, flushed and finally starting to feel awake. Her hands were pulling on her uniform, the movements familiar in a tedious sense, when her eyes drifted to her reflection once more. This time, she was taking note of the raised scars on her shoulder blades, placed so awkwardly that she had to strain to run her fingertips over them. They’d been there since she was a baby, and that was all she knew, not how she got them or what they meant. She shook off the pang of sorrow-laced wonder. _C’mon, Marianne. You’ve got better things to do._

Fully clothed, Marianne left the bathroom and headed back to the kitchen. She filled a cup with coffee, then tossed together a lunch from whatever convenience foods happened to be in her pantry. With a quick glance at the clock, she filled another mug with coffee and carefully made her way out of her section of the apartment. The hallway was blissfully dark and quiet, though she didn’t have the time to appreciate it, given how difficult it was to maneuver Dawn’s door open while carrying two cups of coffee, her handbag, and a sack lunch. She managed, but just barely.

The difference between her sister’s room and her own was jarring. Sunlight set the entire place to glowing, much to the still-drowsy Marianne’s chagrin, but it was gentler, warmer. Not a single empty spot of wall or clear floorboard was to be seen, but the clutter of scattered art supplies, musical instruments, bolts of fabric, and hanging drawings still didn’t come across as messy. There was something so appealing, so homey about the creativity that permeated the place. It floated on the air, waiting to be found and shaped by the deft, loving hands that lived there.

“Mornin’ Dawn!” she called out while kicking the door shut, by no means attempting to preserve the serenity of the scene.

“Marianne!” was the reply, her little sister’s face beaming at her from behind a raised desk.

True to her name, Dawn delighted in the morning, and had always been the first of the two to wake up. Leave it to her to forgo sleeping in for the sake of her work. She accepted the coffee mug from Marianne with a grateful hum, and leaned back in her chair to show off the painting she’d been working on.

“Whaddya think?”

Marianne sank onto the nearby couch. She didn’t need to look to know that whatever Dawn had made would be beautiful, but she humored her anyways. It was another romantic piece, which in and of itself was enough to make Marianne want to cringe, but she restrained herself and tried to at least find virtue in the display of technical skill.

“Looks great!”

“Mhm!” Dawn chirped. “I'm really liking it so far too. It might be my best yet!”

“Wait…" Marianne’s voice took on a scandalized, teasing tone. "Is that supposed to be Hadrian…? From high school?”

“Wh-? _No!”_

Dawn shoved her, causing coffee to be sloshed on the rug, but she was giggling all the while. Marianne couldn’t help but smile back. Her little sister’s universe had always revolved around boys, and as much as maturing had given them opposing views of romance, she was grateful that it hadn’t driven them apart. Let Dawn have a few more years of naivety and fun, she figured. Marianne was determined to stick around and keep reality from hurting her for as long as she could. As if she’d read her mind, though, and was just as resolved to throw herself into the line of fire, Dawn’s face suddenly got that sugar-glazed, wistful look to it.

“Hey, uhm… If you see Sunny today…?” Dawn began, her wide eyes pleading from over the rim of her mug.

Marianne smiled knowingly. “You know I will. And yeah, I’ll ask him if he’s got anything new.”

Dawn squealed out her gratitude and crushed Marianne in a hug.

“Hah, okay, _okay!_ Dawn, your carpet’s getting more of my coffee than I am.”

She pulled back apologetically, but her own tone was just as teasing when she leaned back in her seat and swirled her own mug nonchalantly.

“Oh, you _really_ better drink fast then.”

Marianne way halfway through asking what she meant when realization hit her. The drink all but forgotten, she was bolting to her feet and out the door before Dawn could finish saying, “You’re gonna be _late.”_

 

* * *

 

There was a special place in hell for her damn work shoes, and the throne was reserved for whoever came up with the institute's dress code. How _anyone_ could consider heels sensible work attire-- especially when one had a sprawling parking lot, endless stairs, and a small army of employees to maneuver through--was beyond her. How it could be considered practical for _janitorial_ work was just plain stupid, no matter who you were. As soon as she was out of sight, she kicked them off and carried them.

She skipped the crowded elevator, knowing that the few seconds she could shave off by running would make all the difference. When she burst from the stairwell, panting and rushing to get her shoes back on, she was greeted by a familiar, pleasant shout.

“Hey, Marianne!”

Sunny’s smile was stranded somewhere between friendly and urgent. She hurried to get in line for the punch clock with him, too winded to offer a proper greeting of her own. He didn’t ask what had taken her so long, in keeping with his laid-back, understanding nature, which she appreciated to no end.

“You didn’t have...to wait…” She managed. Instantly, she regretted how ungrateful that sounded, but Sunny waved the comment off.

“Nah, I wanted to! Besides, I’ve got another thing for uh, f-for Dawn. You still don’t mind, right?”

Marianne shook her head, smiling while she punched her time card. “Oh please-- _hoo._ She won’t stop asking about it. If I _don’t_ get your letters to her, I’d never hear the end of it.” She was grinning, but his shocked expression made her falter

“Wait, _really?”_

She elbowed him so he’d break a smile. “Hey, I’m just kidding. ‘Course I don’t mind.”

“No! Uh, I mean, about... Uh… Dawn really likes ‘em that much?”

“Well, yeah.” It was a simple affirmative, as well as a true one, but Marianne couldn’t help but regard it with a pang. What was going on between Sunny and her sister was obvious. It made perfect sense too; they’d practically grown up together. Sunny’s mother had been a maid in their house, making him an almost constant presence in their childhoods. He had always been off singing songs with Dawn, or getting dragged into another one of her boy-crazy schemes. It was sweet, really, and Marianne would support them to the very end.

Society, however, would take one look at their contrasting skin tones and throw a _devastating_ tantrum. They had to tread carefully.

Still, Marianne took the envelope from her friend and tucked it in her bag like a treasure. Technically, Dawn and Sunny were about all she had _,_ so she supposed the comparison wasn’t too far off.

Their conversation turned through a few different topics as they made their way through the halls of the institute--weather and sports and the like. The pleasantries, however, were halted when they came across a group of three familiar faces. They were security guards, not much higher-ranking than Sunny or herself, but these three in particular had been gone on some sort of mission for several weeks. Today was their first day back, it seemed.

Marianne stopped in her tracks as the realization set it. She slumped, good mood deflating instantly. If _they_ had returned, it meant that a certain someone else must have too.

“You’ve _gotta_ be kidding me,” she groaned. Before Sunny could ask her what was wrong, she was dragging him along at an exponentially faster pace, eager to get out of the open hallway.

“Woah, hey! What’s--?”

She stared ahead while answering, but her scowl was all the information Sunny truly needed. “He’s _back.”_

For an entire month, she’d been spoiled by the blissful absence of Roland Green: Head of Security and asshole extraordinaire. At one point, the mere mention of his name had her swooning and sighing like an idiot, but now all it brought her was a boiling brew of resentment, humiliation, and _anger._  

They had dated, almost married, and broken up over a year ago, facts he still seemed to be willfully ignorant of. It didn’t matter how badly she wanted to move on, to accept the lesson learned and never make the same mistake; as long as Marianne was unable to quit her job, she was unable to get rid of him. Her only respite had been the mysterious mission that he and several other higher-ups had embarked on. They’d left without notice or explanation, and that frankly suited her just fine. It’d been like Roland walked off the face of the earth, like a dream come true. Time and again, she’d reminded herself that the peace wouldn’t last, but she’d gotten used to the lack of his creeping, condescending antics nonetheless. And of course, the return to reality was going to be all the more difficult because of it.

Marianne and Sunny continued making their way down to the janitorial office. Sunny, who seemed to pity her through his own dismay, mentioned that they were understaffed on the loading bay where he usually worked mornings, might need a volunteer or two to keep up. 

“That oughta get you out of Roland’s line of fire,” he said with a grin.

“Sunny, you’re the _best.”_

He hummed brightly, and there was a glimmer of hope against the frustration simmering beneath her skin. Her train of thought, however, caused her to almost not register who was leaning against the door to her destination, blocking it and quite obviously lying in wait of something. One glance at that tacky, dark-green suit was all it took to shoot her back into reality once more.

He looked up from underneath his golden hair, mouth quirked in a devilish smirk as he feigned surprise upon seeing her.

“Why, Marianne! Darlin’, if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes! You have no _idea_ how much I missed your pretty lil’--”

 _“Roland,”_ she interrupted, the acknowledgement as terse and venomous as she could manage. She attempted to shove past him and get at the door, but he quickly stepped back into her path, hands raised as though he was trying to flag her down.

“Woah, _woah!_ What’s the _hurry_ , Marianne? I just wanna talk--”

“Well _I_ don’t.”

At her side, Sunny crossed his arms and glared, emboldened by her snark. “Yeah, c’mon Roland, let us through.”

Roland faltered, grin fading in order to make way for a scowl. “How’s about some _respect,_ huh little guy? I’ve worked _way_ too hard for you to just start givin’ me mouth.”

Marianne and Sunny shared an irritated side-glace, each thinking the same thing.

_Christ._

For a hopeful second, it looked as though Roland felt slighted enough to leave, but then he sighed and his grin returned. He seemed to think himself charitable for being so patient with them, but the pseudo-mercy was accompanied by an obvious, unsettling glint in his eyes.

“Oh, no, that reminds me what I came down here for!” He leaned towards Marianne, a hand shielding his face in a conspiratorial manner as he whispered, “ _Because_ of how valuable I am to this place, I was chosen to go on a little trip, y’know. What you _don’t_ know, though, is what I brought back. I’m bringing a new, uh... _asset,_ to the lab, and I’m in _desperate_ need of some trustworthy help to keep the place lookin’ spiffy.”

He winked at her. Marianne rolled her eyes and used his distracted state to shove past him into the office.

“Marianne, wait!” He called after her, stumbling into the room and colliding with another janitor’s cart. “You _have_ to do it now that I’ve told you!”

She kept walking, not intending to stop until he did.

“Hey, you wanna be in security, don’tcha? This could be your big shot!”

She walked faster, seething now. Roland had already used _that_ particular line on her, and of course, hadn’t come through. He had some _nerve..._

“It’ll increase your pay!”

Shit. _Ugh._

Hating herself for it, she hesitated and considered the offer. Working every day in the same _building_ as Roland was bad enough, but working in the same, closed-off laboratory? It had damn well _better_ come with a pay raise. But Dawn… She deserved to be living a little better than on the edge, and it felt selfish to not take it for her sake. With a sigh of defeat, she turned to face Roland (and Sunny, who’d finally caught up).

“Fine.” She gestured towards her startled friend. “Same offer extends to Sunny, right?”

“Well, sure!” Roland blurted, looking delighted that she’d finally caved. His tone was genial, so _dangerously_ close to convincing, and Marianne hated how she had once fallen for it. Now though, she could see right through him, and it took a lot of restraint to not backhand the smug look off of his face and into the light fixtures. Tiredly, she acknowledged that for however long this assignment lasted, it would be filled with Roland constantly sleazing up to her and trying to wear her down.

Her jaw set. At the very least she knew that there was _no_ chance of him succeeding. She’d take the position and pay raise, _and_ dash his hopes to the ground in one fell swoop.

 

* * *

 

Marianne had been too angry to be curious earlier. Now though, that she was receiving a new ID card that gave her clearance to the high-security wing of the facility, she couldn’t _help_ but wonder. The term “asset” could mean almost anything, and if she was going to be working in close proximity to it, she’d like to know exactly what she was getting into. And what was so special about it anyways? What required so much hush-hushing? Surely it couldn’t be _that_ important; otherwise a blabbermouth like Roland wouldn’t be allowed within a three-mile radius of the thing.

Even now, he couldn’t seem to shut up. The entire trek through the facility had been _grueling_ , thanks to the incessant flapping of his jaw. Marianne had already made an art of tuning him out, but she sympathized completely with Sunny’s grimace every time they glanced at each other. Agreeing to this just might have been a mistake, but at least they wouldn’t be alone in it.

Entering the high-security wing caused her to perk up. Craning her neck, she took in every detail of the sprawling, warehouse-like hallway. Lord knew where each of the heavy metal doors would lead to, but at the end of the hall was an open area lined with computers and whirring machinery. Stairs along the far left and right walls led up to a windowed office space, which Roland haughtily identified as his. As much as she hated to give him the satisfaction, Marianne found herself scowling with envy; she’d give an arm and a leg to be working in top-security like that.

She’d been wanting to work in security for _ages,_ and was secretly wondering if this could be a means of getting an actual position. It didn’t seem likely, especially given Roland’s long list of unfulfilled promises, and yet... Maybe she’d get the chance to prove what she was capable, maybe she’d impress some higher-ups, maybe maybe _maybe..._ With a distasteful glance at Roland, she inwardly scoffed. It wasn’t as though the competition was tough. It astounded her, how someone so incompetent and self-obsessed could worm their way up to that ivory tower of an office.

Roland led them towards an open door that looked large enough to accommodate a tank. It teemed with armored guards, white-clad scientists, and dark, scrutinizing figures whose position she couldn’t place. Given their commanding stances and uniforms, she assumed that they were with the military. They greeted Roland gruffly and began conversing with him in secretive mumbles, which left Marianne and Sunny to stand awkwardly near the lab’s entrance.

Much like the area below Roland’s office, the closest walls of the laboratory were lined with computers. There were no security cameras to be seen, which seemed like poor judgement to Marianne, but perhaps the thick, rumbling, perfectly-sealing door compensated for that. No one was getting in or out of here without being noticed, that was for sure. What was most bizarre was the _cage_ set up in the back of the lab _._ It looked as though it belonged in a zoo instead of the orderly lab, what with its tangle of fake plants and deliberately-low lighting. It was arranged so that whatever was inside would be visible to the outside _and_ oblivious to it, or at least unsuspicious of the lame imitation of a forest. A few feet away from its base, a white, border-like line was painted on the floor, almost giving the impression that she was privy to a crime scene.

Moments passed like this, Marianne and Sunny simply taking in their surroundings, before the distant rattle of metal wheels echoed down the hallway outside. The two janitors stared in fascination as workers wheeled in a towering metal case, stopping and leaving it just inside the door before rushing off to open the barred gate of the enclosure. Marianne stepped closer, tilting her head to examine the heavy hinges and porthole-like window.

No one stopped her when she rose on her toes, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was inside. Her fingers were tentative as she reached out, gently touching the thick glass before pressing her palm against it.

She noticed, in that split second, that there were scratch marks on the other side of the glass.

A fist slammed against the window. Marianne stumbled back with a cry of alarm. It struck the glass again and again, claws hissing shrilly as they were drug across the window’s surface. Bestial roars were muffled by the thick metal, and Marianne only noticed that she was panting after hands had grasped her shoulders and pulled her away.

“Careful there darlin’,” Roland drawled smugly, his breath hot against her ear. “That right there is a bona-fide _monster,_ and believe me, his bite is worse ‘n his bark.”  
He was just barely able to draw her to his side before she came back to her senses and shoved him off. The metal case was still trembling with the sound and force of struggling, quickly catching her attention again. Roland was still talking, but her simmering anger paled in comparison to her shock.

Shock and morbid _fascination._


	2. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy-hey, so sorry for the long wait between chapters! At the risk of oversharing: since I last posted, I have finished high school, started college, had a breakdown, and started therapy! It's all good in the hood now, but you could say I've been a wee bit distracted. 
> 
> At any rate, thank you all for your patience and support! Y'all're the greatest and I hope that you enjoy this next bit! :D

 

__

_Humans trespassing on sacred grounds._

_Unheard of._

_The closest mortal village was over a day’s walk from the gateway to his realm. Besides, they knew better. The humans had always known to stay away, to fear Midsummer’s night and rings of mushrooms and the forest altogether._

_But no, Thang and Stuff were insistent, unnerved. Humans were marching in the ancient woods, trampling delicate mosses and raining down chaos._

_He sent a small group of guards out--the first of his kind to cross the veil between worlds in almost a decade. All returned, but evidently, left their ferocity and fearlessness behind in favor of shaking before him. They reported in panicked whispers that the humans were many, that they persisted through the usual trickery and were emboldened by an attack instead of rightly terrified. They spoke of loud noises, of great force, of unfamiliar clothing--of humans unlike any they'd seen before._

_He ground his teeth while listening, annoyance building like steam inside a kettle, but his veins froze over when he heard that the humans had_ **_seen_ ** _the guards. Mortals knew of their existence, and even worse, they weren’t afraid. There was nothing more dangerous._

 

_It would not stand._

 

_He swore at their incompetence, and rose from his throne to handle them himself. His mother fussed and fretted over him. He assured her that he’d be fine, felt confident that his hideous appearance and intimidating height would be weapon enough. Certainly, they sent his own subjects scattering before him, and humans were so soft, so superficial, so weak and easily frightened… Even if they were unafraid, he knew he was stronger, fiercer, and had magic besides._

_Surely, the humans hadn't a chance, especially not in his domain. And yet, there was a sliver of doubt curling and tensing in his chest._

_His mother knew much more about humans than he did. He ought to have listened, wished that he’d_ **_listened…_**

 

_They’d been waiting at the gate._

 

 _Weapons were raised at him expectantly, before he’d even finished crossing over. It all seemed to happen within the span of a single heartbeat. He caught a glimpse of gold hair and a blunt, cruel, delighted smile before he was left staggering. His staff hit the ground soundlessly as he reeled from the blow, and it had to have been lightning, what else could it have been? So loud, so sudden, so powerful and_ ** _painful.._ ** _. But there was more, and surely even the most vicious of storms never struck repeatedly. Mechanical thunder and intense pain swarmed him in a fog of overwhelming exhaustion. He too collapsed to the forest floor._

 _Another heartbeat, and his vision started to clear. The golden man stared down at him and made a breathless, foreign comment. Bog wanted to strangle the smugness from him, wanted to_ **_fight_ ** _._

_But he never had a chance. Never, never--_

 

He stirred from the dream slowly, _frustratingly_ slowly. It was the sedatives again. It had to be. He growled at the artificial lethargy, infuriated by his inability to fight it.

What had last happened…? He wasn’t sure, but thought that he remembered a building, muffled voices, a hand... After rising to his hands and knees, feeling as weak and pathetic as an infant, the once-mighty Bog King opened his eyes.

The floor was not metal, but it _was_ cold and hard enough that it might as well have been. In a sluggish movement, his gaze traced along a seam between its panels. It took far too much effort to raise his aching head and try to make sense of his surroundings. He was in a new prison--a larger one. As soon as that realization settled in, he shakily unfolded his wings and _stretched_ , his joints popping and burning in relief. How long had it been since he’d had room to simply _stretch?_ It was a welcome respite from the coffin-like space he’d been shoved in before. He let out a deep breath, half in relief and half in disdain, because it also wasn't nearly enough.

He needed to get out.

Even as he tried to focus his clouded mind, the walls seemed to loom in from every direction, threatening to crush him. He tried to push away, to stand, but the effort caused the prison to spin in dizzy patterns around him. There was suddenly no ground, something choking was on his neck, he hit a wall because there wasn't enough _room--_

Livid, he tried to thrash away, to cling to consciousness. It swam like minnows between his claws. His limbs finally buckled, and darkness reclaimed him. 

* * *

All things considered, Marianne felt as though she was handling things well.

Strange happenings that weren’t spoken of were a staple of the research facility, but certainly nothing had been so blatant, so _shocking_ , as her brief encounter with... _whatever_ it had been. Still, she found that she didn’t fear going back. In fact, the idea of returning to face down the mysterious monster sounded _heavenly_ in comparison to being stuck where she was.

But still. She was impressed by her own, relatively-calm facade.

Marianne breathed deeply to maintain it, counted the faint ticks of the clock, watched condensation bead down the side of a pitcher of water, regarded the framed mirror that Roland _actually_ kept on his desk--anything to keep from exploding. As far as she was concerned, the fact that she had yet to storm out or attempt to throw her chair at Roland was a show of award-worthy patience and strength.

In theory, it ought to have been a quick, painless debriefing on the expectations of their new position. The reality was eleven-going-on-twelve straight minutes of being held verbally hostage in Roland’s office. Sunny shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to her, and she offered a smirk of sympathy. He made a strange, confused expression in return, and gestured back towards Roland with his eyes.

 _What?_  She mouthed.

“Marianne…?” Roland was saying.

She jolted to attention again, embarrassed in spite of herself. Roland cleared his throat, tone a sugar-dipped sort of “gentlemanly” that turned her stomach sour.

“You alright there, darlin’?”

She scowled silently. A bit petulantly, maybe, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of an answer. He cleared his throat again. Leaning in from across his desk, he offered a grin that twisted with all the delight of a conniving child.

“Well, like I was sayin’... I bet y’all’re wonderin’ just _what_ that thing is.”

Marianne again refused him a reaction. Her arms remained crossed, eyes unblinking and fixed on Roland in her best, most unimpressed glare. She could feel a burning sensation behind her eyes--presumably hate. Hopefully, she could focus it on the perfectly-groomed spot between his eyebrows and bore a hole right through him.

“It’s a beast--well, obviously--but y’see, it’s an _immortal_ one. A fairy‘s what the locals called it, not that it looks like you’d expect--it’s _dog_ ugly, all of ‘em were. And now, I know what you’re thinkin’; when I first heard about some kinda nest of mystifyin’ magic-things out in the woods, I thought it was a load too--y’know, kid’s stuff.”

He paused for a breath, both hands braced on his desk in excitement. “But I’ve _seen_ it. Chased it down and caught it and, well, we didn’t exactly make friends in the process. It can fly, fight--lord have mercy can it _fight…_ But what’s _really_ interestin’? It _heals_ itself. No matter how many times I beat that thing down, it just... _magics_ itself better. It sounds ridiculous…”

He paused again, looking at Marianne so intently it managed to throw her off guard.

“...But it’s real. Believe you me, it’s _real.”_

Her annoyance morphed into genuine discomfort-- a cold feeling that drove deep beneath her skin and settled there. Roland simply kept staring, and yet, he seemed unfocused, unreal. She squinted at him for a while in wary bewilderment before she finally could puzzle out the sudden change.

Something in his shadowed gaze struck her as different. Bitter, perhaps, but simultaneously triumphant. He seemed somehow older, less foolish, more cold. Marianne had expected his typical vanity, shallow attempts to flatter and placate her, being trapped in his presence under flimsy pretenses... And yes, Roland had given all of that, but _this_ was new. New and disconcerting. She could only hope that it was directed at the monster and not her.

She nearly flinched when his eyes cleared and snapped back to her, intense and looking ready to swallow her whole.

 _“Imagine,_ Marianne. Soon as we figure out _how,_ we’ll be immortal too. That thing’s gonna change the world, and _I’m_ the one who brought it back.”

There was a beat of silence, and she filled it with wishes to disappear.

“How’d you do it?”

 _Oh, Sunny. Thank god for Sunny,_ she thought. Her friend’s curious prompting successfully broke through the thick, chilled air. She shot him a grateful look, even as Roland blinked out of his trance, leaned back, and launched into another self-congratulatory tangent. Like the moment had never happened. Like the shadows had never been there.

“Oh, y’know, it was mostly a matter of _lookin’._ Took so long I doubt the others woulda made it without me. It took a helluva long time to lure it out too, but once we did, it was easy as one-two-bullet to take it down. We packed it up like a sardine and now it’s here, ready for all our boys to pick it apart.”

“That’s... _fascinating,”_ Marianne said, recovered enough to help guide the conversation to the nearest exit. “Congratulations. Great. But we’re here to be briefed on _our_ job, not yours.”

Roland blinked at her. “But… don’t you wanna-?”

She grit her teeth. _“No.”_

He blinked again. With a huff, he started sifting through the mess of papers and file folders on his desk. “Well, _fine_ then. Clean the lab ‘n get out, that’s the long ‘n short of it.”

“Oh, _that’s_ helpful.” Roland glared at her after that comment, and she bit her tongue. He deserved the sass and then some, but it was far too easy to forget how much higher he was up the food chain. She was pushing her luck.

He slid a sheet across the desk, and the two janitors glanced at it together before Sunny picked it up. It was a timesheet, but most of its boxes had been censored with black ink. All that was legible was the row detailing the times they were supposed to clean the new asset’s lab. Roland met their raised brows with a shrug.

“Like I said, this is _top secret_ stuff right here. Any loose lips and, well…” He chuckled lightly, but the threat was obvious, permeating. “You two seem plenty trustworthy to me. There’s a white safety line ‘round the bottom of the cage; y’all just...stay back and keep your heads low. We wouldn’t want any mishaps, now would we?”

“Can do,” Sunny said. He opened his mouth to offer more--an _“Are we done yet?”_ if the look on his face was any indication--but Roland cut him off once more.

“ _Alright._ Now Sandy, you can leave. I wanna talk with Miss Springfield here one-on-one.”

Her face contorted in dismay. “Wh--? _No,_ whatever the hell you need to say, you can-”

_“Marianne,”_

She tensed and slammed her fists on the arms of her chair--much harder and louder than she’d intended--but damn it to hell, she _hated_ when he interrupted like that, _hated_ his condescension. She sneered at Roland’s slightly-nervous smirk, her previous worries about staying in line tossed to the wind. A tense moment passed, with Sunny’s focus flickering from one force of nature to the other expectantly, waiting for an explosion.

When it got to be too much, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “O-kaay, uhm… Just gonna…”

Marianne hung her head slightly, both missing her friend and glad to have him out of the line of fire. She raised it again at the sound of the door shutting, disgusted to find Roland twirling his hair and giving her a heated look.

“I think I even missed you gettin’ angry,” he started in what was the worst possible way to start. She scoffed and eyerolled almost instinctively.

“Save it.”

“Oh, c’mon sweetheart! Give me another chance! I’ve got--”

“God, you’ve got to be shitting me!” She found herself standing, hands braced on the desk. “How-- _Why_ are you still doing this? Why the hell can’t you just… Just let it _go!_ ”

“Why--? _You’re_ the one who can’t let things go! Buttercup, it was just one _tiny_ mistake--”

“Tiny? Are you-- No, no. No. You know what? I don’t have to explain myself to you.” She leaned in closer, jabbing with a finger to punctuate each word. “I’m. Not. _Interested._ Stop with the advances, o-or so help me I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” His posture was relaxed, _too_ relaxed, she _hated_ how relaxed he was. “Marianne, darlin’ you’re standin’ in _my_ office; your job is workin’ with _my_ asset. And sweetheart, c’mon, you ‘n I both know that quittin’ would be a mistake. Besides, I _know_ you, Marianne, and you ain’t a quitter.”

He leaned in too, and she clenched her hands into fists.

“Don’t quit on _us._ Darlin’ I’ve _changed;_ I ain’t the flighty young thing I used to be. I’m ready to settle down and...and _have_ things now. I had to fight and work for that asset, for this _position,_ and I _did_ it. Things’re changin’, I’m buildin’ my empire, and I want you to be my queen.”

She winced in revulsion, moved to leave. “ _No.”_

He groaned, stood, and lunged to grab her wrist.

“C’mon Marianne,” he whined. “You have no _idea_ how hard this trip’s been for me. All I’ve wanted is to come home--home to _you!”_

She let out a high-pitched growl, wordlessly demanding that he let go of her. He didn’t.

“We’re even working together again now! This is our chance to start over. Marianne, _please…”_

Standing as tall as she could make herself, she struck with all she was worth.

“Okay, I can’t,” Her voice strained a little as she wrenched away from his grasp, intentionally doing so much harder than she needed to. “Just _can’t_ make this any clearer: I’m doing this for the raise. It has _nothing_ to do with you. It’s over, it’s _been_ over, and it always _will_ be over between us. Nothing you say or do is _ever_ gonna change that. _Ever.”_

 

She didn’t slam the door on her way out, but it was tempting. Sunny was leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her.

“ _Hoo_. You sure slammed him good.”

She shrugged, still seething. Likely, Roland would mend his pride and be right back at it again the next day, and both of them knew it. They started walking, ignoring the few looks they were getting from other employees in favor of moving on to their own work.

“Ugh, can you _believe_ him though?” Sunny said once they were past the range of the countless, prying ears. His disgust was evident in everything from the look on his face to his forceful trudge.

Marianne sighed. “The sad thing is? _Yeah,_ this is all _completely_ par-for-the-course for him. He’s just… It’s like he’s in his own little world up there, like nothing bad can ever touch him. No _wonder_ he’s such an arrogant, entitled, _cheating_ little pill.”

She huffed at her own ranting, forced herself to relax the tension in her arms and hands. They walked for a while in silence. When Sunny playfully elbowed her side, Marianne couldn’t even manage a smile.

“Loose lips sink ships, huh? That’s pretty rich, comin’ from him.”

She snorted.

“I mean, seriously, he could jam both hands in that big mouth of his and still have room to clap. Did you _hear_ how--”

He didn’t need to finish; in spite of herself, Marianne was already dissolving into laughter at the image. Sunny looked incredibly satisfied with himself. She shoved him appreciatively.

“Oh, this is _sooo_ top-secret,” she mocked, twirling a strand of hair in her best imitation of him. “Heya blue-collars, here’s all the juicy details that I’m _so_ special for knowing!”

They both laughed, the sound echoing down the hallway and prompting more stares.

“God, we’re gonna get fired,” Marianne hissed. They both tried to sober up, but the grins and play-fighting continued as they made their way back to work.

* * *

When Bog awoke again, it was to the sound of voices.

Something about the foreign language being spoken--harsh, unintelligible chatter that it was--filled him with disgust. He focused on the feeling, snarled as he felt it expand and course through him.

Nothing was quite so motivational as a burst of anger.

His head still spun when he stood, but at least it was no longer debilitating. He grasped for a nearby tree branch in order to steady himself, heart jolting when the whole plant rocked from his weight. It was merely fake, not even rooted to the floor. A quick, glaring inspection led him to realize that the entire forest was false, dead, and _much_ too small. It was, frankly, rather insulting how little they’d tried. He began to stalk towards the edge of the enclosure, but froze at the sound of clanking metal behind him.

A chain was dragging on the ground. It attached to a thick, sturdy iron ring on the cold, stony wall. And the other end…? He followed it with his eyes, dread pulling at him before he quite realized, and how _clouded_ his mind was to have not immediately noticed, and by the stars above those humans were going to _pay_ for this...

Hands shot to the iron collar around his neck and jerked at it. It was no use. He tore at the chain, attempted to rip it from the wall, and in spite of every snarl he made the distant humans just kept talking, _laughing_ even. He felt his chest near caving in with rage, and he loosed it in a mighty, earth-shaking roar. He toppled the useless trees, tore through fake foliage, splintered a branch and lofted it like his staff.

Let them laugh at _this._

He charged for the edge of the enclosure, and was stopped by iron bars. Of course, of _course_ yet another cheap, cheating tactic. Bog was through with such games. With all of his strength, he grabbed at the door and rattled it, envisioning himself ripping it off of its hinges and sending all the soft-skinned mortals fleeing.

It was no use. The door held fast.

On the other side, he could see the source of the previous noise. Frozen and wide-eyed like rabbits. A short one with dark skin, looking faint with terror. An only slightly taller one who didn’t look frightened _enough._ He wanted the satisfaction of fear in those eyes. He wanted blood on his hands, retribution and _victory._

It was no use, but he started again with the door anyways.

The two humans fled the room.


	3. Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new asset is causing a ruckus on a daily basis, and yet Marianne is still going stir-crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee Bill, how come your mom lets you have two updates?  
> I have nothing to say about my horrible lack of consistency except "o h god I am so sorry."

 

There was a repulsive creature in her workplace that she didn’t want to be within a three-mile radius of. There was also some kind of fairy caged in the lab she was assigned to clean, apparently. At this point, Marianne figured, why not?

Regardless of how bizarre it was, she found that the latter development didn’t change much about her routine. Wake up, shower, coffee, be late. It was the reintroduction of Roland that would require constant vigilance and dodging, but even then, her life would still be mainly ruled by shift hours and bus schedules.

Her day began in a blur; which particular day it was didn’t seem to matter. It felt as though she had only just awoken when Sunny met her with his usual chipper greeting. She clocked in, they grabbed supplies, then trudged off to their first assignment of the day.

Given all that, she wasn’t surprised when her mind drifted, thoughts melting into static. Menial work didn’t require much thinking, which could be both a blessing and a curse, especially when one was having an off day. She’d long ago given up on little mind games, those _count the tiles_ or _see how fast you can go_ types of things that helped to pass the time. Perhaps others would fill the space with daydreaming, wishing for a better future, but she found those thoughts to be elusive, damaging even.

 _Do you even_ **_have_ ** _dreams?_

She used to. _Dangerous,_ she chided herself, and shoved the heavy feelings away.

The side-to-side strokes of her mop across the hallway happened expertly, a matter of muscle-memory. The repetitive movements and shine of the floor were hypnotic. Sunny was humming something--she didn’t know what--and oh, she'd finished without realizing. A scowl formed due to her own robotic mindset.

 _What are you_ **_doing?_ **

She tried to swallow the thought back down, but it persisted.

_Is this really how you want to spend the rest of your life?_

Hands returned the cleaning supplies to their cart, and it seemed surreal that they were hers, calloused and strong and utterly stuck here where they didn’t belong. She nodded; told Sunny when he asked that yes, she was fine. Just tired.

He gave her a raised eyebrow, which was as close to saying “bullshit” as Sunny got. She huffed, fighting a smile that came from either discomfort or amusement, but either way, it helped to pull her out of her fog. His pointed look remained, however, unwavering even as she pushed the cart down the hall with a rough shove.

“Sunny, _seriously,_ it’s nothing.”

“I’ve known you all my life and I _know_ that look,” he protested. “Is it Roland?”

Marianne sighed. “Ugh, I mean-- Yeah, he’s a asshole, but not any more than usual. I can deal with it. You’re sweet to care ‘n all, but--”

“No, it’s something. Tell me or-- Or I’ll tell Dawn!”

“O-kay I take it back. This is _extortion.”_

He laughed, and she did too. All of her doubts and feelings of sinking, of restlessness, of drifting away… They dimmed, quieting enough for her to ignore them once more. She thought instead of Sunny and Dawn, grateful for her life being tangled in theirs.

 

* * *

 

When the time came to head to their newest assignment, the two janitors shared a look. A sense of mutual-but-unspoken disquiet clouded the air. Their last visit to the lab had been disconcerting, to put things delicately to the point of dishonesty. Sunny’s steps were hesitant, his hands constantly moving to check and re-check everything--the timesheet, his watch, the cleaning supplies... Marianne marched along next to him, shoulders squared in a manner that was more confident, but her pulse thrummed beneath the surface. Sunny and Dawn might be the masters of normal, healthy living, but she was the one who could and gladly would stand between them and danger. She _was_ a little nervous, but she just took that as a challenge.

As they checked into the high-security wing and continued their journey, the tension only worsened. The vast, normally-empty hall was dotted with other employees, desk-workers and experimenters alike, that clustered in muttering groups or rushed in the same direction they were headed. To the lab. To the new asset.

Marianne and Sunny glanced at each other again.

“Maybe we uh… Maybe we should go back,” he said. “Things over here seem kinda busy…”

She considered, lips pursed in a way that was bound to smear her lipstick. “I dunno, Sunny… Let’s see what’s going on first.”

There was a throng of people outside of the laboratory door and security guards were trying to shoo them away. Marianne scanned their unfamiliar faces, hoping for some kind of answer in their looks of mildly-frightened disgust and interest. She followed glances to the commotion’s source: a bloodied man that was sitting just outside the door, being tended to by a nurse and one of the scientists.

Her wince became a stare when she realized it was Roland.

Acute horror stung her at first; she hadn’t even _recognized_ him through all of the red. Another second of observing, however, was all it took to shatter her concern. He was milking the attention of everyone around him--the nurse being a particular target, it seemed--and the damage appeared minimal. Claw marks traced the left side of his face, oozing blood down his jaw and spreading against the white of his dress shirt. His hands and face were also smeared in it but the cuts looked shallow. He would probably be hurt most by his stupid perfect skin becoming scarred.

When he noticed Marianne staring at him from the back of the crowd, he made a move to get up, but another employee surged forward and blocked their view of each other.

“Oh, thank god, the help,” the frazzled-looking man gushed, approaching her and Sunny. “We need this accident cleaned-- R- _right_ away! Poor Colonel Green… I-- We-- You know what to do.” He mopped his brow and averted his eyes from the blood, then gestured weakly behind him to the open lab doors. Without giving them a chance to respond, he joined the security guards in trying to make the remaining audience disperse.

Marianne blinked, blinked again, then let out a huffing breath.

“Jesus. Okay then.”

Beside her, Sunny moaned a little, regarding the laboratory door as though it was a gaping maw. “This was a _mistake._ M-Marianne, maybe we oughta-- They could probably find someone else…?”

She shook her head, fingernails tapping restlessly on the carts handle as she eased it forward. “You can always head back; I can handle it alone.” Wincing at the briskness of her own words, she tried to double back and soothe their sting. “I mean… Sunny, yeah, this seems... _weird_ and probably dangerous. But, well, you know me.”

He sighed and followed her. “Always a gal of action. That’s you.” Another sigh. “I’ll come with, but don’t expect me to be pulling you out of that thing’s cage if it grabs you.”

She smirked, was about to reassure him, but then got a good look at the room and cringed.

There was a trail of small blood spatters leading from the door to an odd, low platform that stood close to the cell. It too was generously painted red, a sight which she scowled at in contemplation. There was no way it all had come from Roland’s few flesh wounds. More blood trailed towards the cage, smeared in lines that seemed to indicate something being dragged through it. A battle had occurred here, and evidently, the Asset had lost it. Marianne averted her eyes, glad that she was uninvolved in their conflict.

A folding table had been knocked over close by, various instruments and a surgical tray scattered on the floor as well. She nudged a shattered syringe with her foot, wary of its mystery contents that were waiting to be mopped up. Expecting a declaration of mutual dismay at the work laid out for them, she looked up at her friend, only to find him still staring at the enclosure. This time, there was no sign of life inside of it, but that was almost worse.

“You alright?” she asked.

“...you’re _sure_ you don’t wanna ask for a reassignment?”

Her lips twitched, and she offered him a dustpan. “It’s an extra ten cents an hour. You’re welcome to do whatever, but I’ll stick it out a bit.”

Sunny sighed, but accepted the tool. They each pulled on gloves and got to work scraping up glass. At some point, the murmuring from outside the lab dwindled, and the flustered man--likely an administrative person of some sort--came in to shakily grab a file folder and a ring of keys. He waved a queasy acknowledgement before leaving, the heavy door clanging shut behind him.

Marianne paused mid-mopping, watching the door for a moment before turning to Sunny. “How’s about some music?”

He glanced back at the cage again. “You sure that’s a good idea…?”

“Looks to me like it's got wounds to lick.” She shrugged. “Besides, even if it _does_ freak out on us again… The bars’re still there. We’ll be fine.”

Without waiting for an answer, she moved bottles of soap and spray aside in order to grab their technically-forbidden radio from the cart. The signal inside the facility was surprisingly decent, and although moments where they could get away with using it were few and far between, having music was a surefire way to make work more bearable.

It especially did wonders for Sunny. Marianne smiled knowingly, watching the tension in his posture dwindle until he was swaying along to the beat. He’d always been a musical type--something he and Dawn had bonded over since childhood--and she knew from experience just how talented he was. She liked to think she could carry a tune herself, but she certainly didn’t have the same patience for instruments and sheet music. Given the chance, she was sure Sunny would go far.

The first song faded, followed by Elvis Presley belting out the abrupt first notes of “Hound Dog.” He wasn’t her favorite artist, but the tune was ridiculously catchy. Even her own movements began to align to the music, and she laughed at the sight of Sunny perfectly mimicking the King’s signature dance moves.

“You’re gonna slip on all this blood,” she teased. He grinned back, doubling his efforts by adding his own twist. He made the performance look impressive and effortless all at once, especially given that he _didn’t_ slip. When the song faded, she gave a round of applause. “It’s a good song to go out to, at least. Are you gonna help now, ooor…?”

“Oh, you should hear the original,” he said, leaning on his broom handle and ignoring the quip about not working. “Big Mama Thornton? It’s good stuff. You could sing it to Roland if he ever tries to serenade you again.”

The lab was mostly clean by then, only the blood spatters closest to the cage remaining. Marianne didn’t hesitate for long; she certainly wasn’t going to leave Sunny to do it. She approached it with steely resolve, mop brandished like a weapon. Every stroke seemed like a tiny adventure, and she hurried her pace as she cleaned across the painted safety line, memories of earth-shaking roars filling her mind.

Just when it seemed as though all the anticipation was for nothing, she heard leaves rustling, and in spite of every ounce of her common sense screaming at her to _not_ do so, she froze in place. A low, half-strangled growl came from somewhere in the enclosure, close but otherwise unable to be located. Marianne snapped out of it and moved backward, taking the mop and the last of the blood with her.

She growled back at it, expression fierce. “You don’t scare me.”

Silence was her only reply. Warily, she turned her back, and the two janitors quickly left.

 

* * *

 

The next day, she found herself stuck with a feeling of expectation. Perhaps it was the tumultuous events of the past few days creating the sense that today would likely be the same. Something was likely to go horribly wrong, and she wanted to be prepared for it.

When Sunny was called back to the loading dock for the afternoon, she wondered if that could be it. Parting ways with one of two people in the world who she got along with, even if temporarily, could explain it. The feeling, however, persisted even afterwards. She did her work alone, moody and on-edge.

When the time for her lunch break came, she also headed to the cafeteria alone. There were other cleaning ladies headed the same way, and she was acquainted with most of them, but reaching out for some temporary, superficial companionship didn’t seem worth feeling like the odd one out. She could handle solitude--no, she _liked_ solitude. Sunny was a bright spot in an oppressively-dull workplace, but she was independent, could manage without him.

It was embarrassing, the way she froze outside of the door frame, more afraid to cross that barrier than the one that had stood between her and a presumably-homicidal monster. Shame aside, however, she was nonetheless glad that she _did_ stall.

Seated at a table and surrounded by a throng of mostly-female listeners, a bandaged Roland was talking and making grand gestures towards himself. Marianne crumpled her paper lunch sack a little, then turned on her heel and left before she was noticed. Somewhere else, then. She considered returning to the janitorial office, perhaps even looking for a cleaning closet somewhere, but the idea of eating alone in either place seemed a little too sad. Working through her break seemed like the best option, but brought her to think of her next task: the Asset’s lab. Roland certainly was occupied, and it was likely that the other personnel were breaking as well. Which meant it would be empty.

She strode down the hall, grabbing supplies before heading to the high-security wing. A flash of her ID and a push of a button later, she found herself blissfully alone. No snarling or prison-bar rattling greeted her, so she felt safe enough to relax.

Marianne settled on the raised platform in the laboratory’s center and kicked her shoes off of her aching feet.

She made quick work of her sandwich, her satisfaction only increasing when she pulled out a bag of jerky. She opened it with a violent pop, and hummed to herself as its savory scent filled the air. She dug in, oblivious to the set of eyes that were locked on her.

A low sound came from the enclosure, causing her to flinch. There was movement and rustling among the plants, but however much she strained her eyes, she couldn’t seem to pick out the creature hiding within them. _It's still behind the bars. It can't get out._ Silently, she scolded herself for being so jumpy and continued eating. She probably ought to just get used to its feral noises.

As if reading her mind, the sound rang out again. Marianne frowned and tilted her head slightly; it sounded... _off._ Not the same, threatening sound she’d been expecting. It was more of a gurgle, and certainly had been brought on by the food, so perhaps the creature was hungry…? It wasn’t as though it was her job to feed it. She nonetheless found herself pausing in consideration.

She got to her feet, still clutching the bag. Slowly, she approached the enclosure, stopping just as her stockinged toes reached the white line. Yet another growl came from behind the bars, but this time it _was_ what she expected: louder, clearer, and more guttural. It was distinctly different from the sound of the creature’s empty stomach in how animal and _warning_ it sounded.

 _You don’t scare me,_ she reminded herself.

Long fingers fished out a large piece of jerky, and after carefully planning the throw, tossed it through the bars. It landed on the concrete floor. Her gesture was met with a long, tense moment of silence before the plants began rustling again, and the creature let out another warning snarl. Marianne stepped back, both hands held up defensively.

“Okay, okay,” she said, more for her sake than the creature’s. “Just trying to help.”

Returning to the rest of her lunch, she almost missed the sight of a long, gnarled arm reaching from the shadows to grab the meat. She blinked in awe while it retreated from sight, her curiosity piqued. Perhaps she really _could_ get through to it, or at the very least, make it realize that its aggression did nothing to faze her. She returned to her seat and the rest of her lunch. When its stomach growled again, she casually tossed the entire bag of jerky towards the enclosure. It hit the bars and made an anticlimactic landing at their base.

She watched closely from the corner of her eye, hoping for another glimpse, but was by no means prepared when the creature stepped entirely from the shadows. Technically, she'd seen it before in all of it's terror, but the stillness and silence of the moment made a world of difference. Every detail was visible to her now, waiting to be taken in, and her eyes drank eagerly. Tall, spiny, alien, and _imposing,_ it held her gaze coldly before bending to reach for the food. With narrowed, suspicious eyes, it examined her just as closely as she was examining it.

The creature was insectoid, with spire-like limbs and layers of plates that formed a dull-colored exoskeleton. Everything about it was harsh; each edge and point of its body looked as though it could slice her skin to ribbons. Nonetheless, she almost could have mistaken it for a person in a clever disguise. The Asset was distinctly humanoid, particularly in its facial features, harsh and snarling as they were. She was captivated by its expressiveness, intrigued by its wings, which resembled a dragonfly’s and twitched in agitation. But perhaps most shocking of all was the fact that even hunched over and behind bars, it struck her as _dignified._ Marianne almost felt guilty for throwing food at the creature as though it was a common animal, which clearly, it was not. And god, those _eyes,_ so startlingly human, so strangely _blue,_ staring so accusingly and suspiciously at her...

Marianne shut her gaping mouth and stood, hoping for a closer look. The minute she moved, the creature bared its crooked teeth and flared the plates of its armor, puffing out like the fur of a startled cat. It once more retreated to the shadows. As much as it couldn’t have gone far, the Asset’s absence left her stunned, disappointed, and perhaps a twinge lonesome. It wasn’t her business-- _clean and get out--_ but how could she _not_ be mesmerized?

A minute’s time brought her back to reality, reminded her to finish what she actually came here for, but it failed to stop her from glancing almost constantly at the cell. She gathered up her lunch things and began her work, all the while straining her ears, hoping to pick up the sounds of eating. She was rewarded with nothing.

By the time Sunny found her, she was well over halfway done with the lab.

“So this is where you were!” He said, panting a little. Although his tone was relieved, Marianne could tell that he was confused by her, and had to fight back the thought that he was judging her.

“Avoiding Roland, huh?”

“Heh, yeah,” she replied simply, most of her focus occupied by cleaning.

“Geez, you coulda-- I wish I’d known. I totally woulda helped you out.”

Marianne snorted, her tone dismissive but not unkind. “Nah, it’s alright. I, uh, it… It was nice, just having some peace and quiet. Might make coming here a thing.”

He laughed, light but a little forced. “Well hey, long as it works for you. D’you want me to come with you…?”

The offer was sweet, entirely in character with him, but she again shrugged it off. “You can if you want, but I know you’ve got other friends. It’s alright, seriously.”

Grabbing at supplies and jumping in to help her, Sunny gave her an earnest, sincere look. “I mean… Okay. But don’t start cleaning without me, okay? You need breaks, and _I_ gotta pull my weight.”

“Sunny, it’s _fiiiiine,”_ she insisted, a bit of a joking whine to her voice.

“Listen Miss Lone Wolf,” he shot back. He poked his broom handle into her side, eliciting another exasperated huff from her. “I know you _can_ do it alone, but you don’t _have_ to. Don’t make me bring Dawn into this again.”

“How can you be so nice and so _mean_ at the same time?”

He shrugged. “It’s a talent. And effective too.”

“Ugh, tell me about it. I dunno what I’d do without you two bullying me.”

“Start fights and win ‘em til you died, probably.”

So it went, back and forth with the sibling-like teasing. Laughter that they barely tried to hold back echoed around the room, and for a moment, the sense of being watched from behind metal bars and fake foliage went ignored.


	4. The Barrier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to keep up a tough exterior is hard enough when you're trapped, traumatized, and scared for your life, but toss in some trust issues, pride, and a well-meaning stranger and you'll have yourself a Bog King. I'm writing this at 2 AM.

It was with no small amount of dismay that Bog realized he was growing accustomed to this place. Its schedule was roughly the same each day, and he had unconsciously committed it to memory. He knew when to expect the white-robed mortals, followed occasionally by the green-clad torturer. He knew when the lights were shut on and off, cruel imitations of the day and night skies he’d grown to miss. Perhaps there was a lesson here about the things that he took for granted. It seemed unlikely, though, and even if it _was_ the case, Bog would call it sanctimonious meddling more than teaching. Lessons be damned; he wasn't going to take these indignities lying down.

And he _was_ planning to do something about his situation, make no mistake. As he paced along the back wall of his cell, he stewed and schemed himself to distraction.

Acceptance was a self-imposed death sentence as far as Bog was concerned. No matter what it took, he was going to free himself and raze this cursed building to the ground. He was _going_ to go home. Annoying as his forest could be, no one there would have _dared_ to mistreat him like this. Losing his power and agency had wounded more deeply than torture ever could.

And of course, it enraged him. He had more than enough anger to fuel his rebellion.

The only question was _how._

He had to rule out brute force, which was unfortunate, given his expertise in the area and unsatisfied aggression. Resorting to cunning seemed logical, but failed to get him far. There were no weakness in his cell or in the chains they used on him. Whenever a human wanted to get close, they’d use drugs that turned his strength to empty numbness, or sometimes knock him out entirely. They were a conniving lot, and no opportunities to use them had opened thus far.

As much as he disliked their high, grating tones, he had even tried listening to the mortals’ conversations. Learning their language would be invaluable, but it was an arduous, and thus far, futile process. The humans were studying him, but _why?_ They were planning, whispering, but _what?_ It all swam through his head, gone the instant he stopped repeating the meaningless sounds to himself.

He continued trying anyways. Other goblins, his mother included, had done it before; In ages past, they used to travel the mortal world in disguise. He had never thought to ask Griselda for anything beyond stories, and of course, he was paying for it now. In other circumstances, he would have scoffed at the idea of it being anything close to an oversight, but instead, a splitting feeling of grief hit him at the thought of his mother.

What he’d give for the chance to have her pester and berate him, just as long as it meant he was _with_ her.

He missed her. He missed _everything_. Every crack in the unforgiving, cold floor and frayed, false leaf in his prison cell was seared into his mind, taunting when compared to the earthy moss and rich forests of home. He even missed settling foolish disputes, would give _anything_ to be snarling over another botched message from the farthest reaches of his kingdom.

Restless, he tugged at the repulsive iron collar around his neck. The attached chain creaked behind him, stretched to its limit. Rather than change the direction of his pacing, Bog struggled against it. He pushed forward with a snarl, wings and scales rattling with effort. He braced his legs and grit his teeth and _jerked._ It did nothing. _Useless._ He turned back to the wall with a growl and slammed a fist into it, ignoring the sickening CRACK of the impact.

He was left with nothing but pain, frustration, and growing despair. _Weakness,_ he thought angrily, but even fury paled next to the chasm-like anxieties, weighing down on his chest and threatening to crush it like a seed pod. He sank to a sitting position, leaning against the wall.

His strength and wisdom meant nothing here. What else did he have? But no, he couldn't afford to think that way.

As a distraction, he examined the hand he’d struck with. It was still clenched in a fist, still throbbing with pain, and the blow had been hard enough to crack the few segments of armored skin on his knuckles. Sighing, he clasped it in his other hand and focused. Amber light traced the fissures between the plates of his exoskeleton, and relief flooded his system as the damage was mended. With another, more relaxed sigh, he sank further down against the wall and closed his eyes.

He needed rest, but his mind was still throbbing insistently.

What else _did_ he have?

Tired eyes came to rest on a distant wall, the one across from his cage, and the part where it opened to a long stretch of hallway. He wasn’t sure where it led, but it seemed to be the only exit in the massively constricting room. It was so _close_ , and yet was utterly unobtainable. It meant escape. And that was all. That was why he kept finding himself staring at it, waiting, anticipating.

Because, there _was_ something, the faintest sliver of a chance. He had a...potential ally, for lack of a better term. There was _her._

He shook himself, startled by and scornful of his train of thought. Didn’t he know better? The idea of relying on someone else was unappealing enough, but relying on a _human?_ He’d sooner stay where he was than fall to that level.

Bog grimaced. _That_ was a complete and utter lie.

He had been forcing himself to _not_ think of it, out of pride, out of uncertainty and suspicion. No matter how he hated to admit it, however, he was desperate.

So, alright. _Her._ The short human woman who came to clean, the one with the warrior-like glare and the wicked right-hook and the solitary shred of mercy he'd been offered.

He’d seen her only a few times since their first confrontation, and during that time she’d managed to worm further out of his general disdain for humans. She had delivered a striking punch to the torturer’s face--something he’d said to her had been insulting enough to provoke it, Bog assumed. Not that it mattered. Seeing the golden-haired fool floundering about and at the mercy of someone so small had been _immensely_ satisfying. In the days afterwards, the torturer was sporting his claw marks _and_ a blossoming bruise.

It certainly hadn’t made him more forgiving during those tests, though, when they pushed as hard as they could to find his limit, to force him to heal himself. But he was stronger, too stubborn to allow that.

Her presence seemed unpredictable thus far; the only other sign he’d had of her continued existence was a small meal that had been placed inside of his cell. He assumed that it was her, at least. At the time, still groggy from sedatives and stars-knew how long of a coerced nap, he didn’t even question it. He made quick work of the dried meat she left him, downed the water without pausing for breath, and although he hesitated at the apple, he ended up devouring it core and all.

His stomach growled at the memory. Bog growled back at it. As much as he needed the relief, he reminded himself that her offerings weren’t necessarily a kindness. She might just be spiting the torturer. She might be colluding with him directly, putting on an elaborate act in order to gain his trust, manipulate him. Either way, he had no reason to believe she cared. He could _not_ afford to let his guard down. If anything, he should attempt to manipulate her in return. But...if she truly _did_ hate the torturer, and if her aid _was_ sincere…

If he spent another second caught up in these nebulous, unrealistic hopes that were _surely_ bound to be crushed, then he was going to combust out of sheer self-loathing. What nonsense _was_ this? The respite between sessions of being poked and prodded should be for formulating an escape plan, _not_ being helpless and naive.

_But perhaps,_ a distant part of him insisted, one he thought he had crushed long ago, one that certainly shouldn't have survived these past weeks. _Perhaps she could be the key._

Leaning his head back and against the wall, he gave the ceiling a vacant stare. His thoughts and plans just seemed to loop in circles of uncertainty, and it was exhausting, _exasperating_. He began to wait; for sleep, for an epiphany, for _something--_ he wasn’t sure.

 

* * *

 

However long he spent waiting, he couldn’t say; all he knew was that that the opening of the door was jarring and sudden, sending a bolt of instinctive alertness through him. His head jerked up, straining to gain a clear view of what was outside his cell.

As though summoned by his thoughts, it was _her._

Bog felt his tension ease. But slightly, of course, only slightly. Taking great care to remain silent and hidden, he rose to his feet and watched her. She pressed a button to shut the heavy doors behind her, turned and pushed her strange little set of shelves further into the cold, cavernous room. She began sifting through items, casual and almost aimless, and only then did she direct her attention towards his prison.

He could tell that her gaze was searching--searching for _him_ \--as it passed over the cell bars. She called something out, her hands still busied. He, of course, couldn't understand what she was saying, but her tone was questioning. He told himself that he didn't trust it just because it seemed non-threatening, however. Perhaps it was a greeting. Perhaps it was meant to throw him off his guard. His mind settled on the latter explanation, and he remained silent, vigilant.

Ignoring his unresponsiveness, she moved to sit down on the low, circular table that the experimenter would chain him to. She seemed either ignorant of or unperturbed by its bloody purpose. Producing a paper bag, she pulled food from it and began to eat. The pangs and salivation returned, and stars, he _hated_ how desperate he had become. She opened a box of some sort, and the smell of meat reached him. Not dried meat either, but cooked and _fresh_ and enough to make his jaw clench. The mortal tipped the box towards the cage, quipping something with a smirk. Was she _taunting_ him? Testing?

Two could play at that game. She had been the only one to offer him decent food thus far, and stars above, how he _needed_ it, but she was still one of them. He wasn’t going to bow down and accept it from the floor, cowering in the shadows like a coward. Not like last time. If she couldn’t treat him with a shred of dignity, or at least try to placate him out of fear, then a source of food was likely all she was useful for.

With bitter resolve, he flared his wings and surged forward, raised to his full height. He watched her face closely, expecting to see that smile melt into absolute terror. Standing in front of the bars, head held high and eyes narrowed, he held her gaze and challenged her silently.

But even though the smile faded, she didn't look afraid, or even particularly fazed. What was worse was that this woman _retaliated._ He tensed as she stood and took the first step closer. She approached the cage slowly, the look on her face one of cautious curiosity. The hands holding the food extended, and he took a step back when she stepped right over the white line on the floor.

None of the other mortals had done that, at least not while he was fully conscious. None had _dared._

His wings and shoulder plates rattled, and his sense of mistrust revealed itself to be little more than pride-clad fear. Of a tiny wisp of a creature, fragile and utterly mortal, and all because perhaps she really _was_ his only hope.

Bog remained frozen, inwardly panicked over having no idea what to do.

She mumbled something even in tone, her movements slow and non-threatening, her intent clear. A hand-- _miniscule_ in comparison to his--held onto one of the iron bars, and the other slipped through the space between to offer him the food. His gaze flickered down to it, then back to her face. Her eyes were amber, glimmering like his magic and rimmed in purple shadows. Striking. She held the offering a little closer, leaning into the bars to do so, her silent meaning clear.

_Go on. Take it._

Every bit as slow and deliberate as she had been, he stepped back to the barrier between them and reached for the food. She placed it gently in his hand. He watched as the long, pale digits retreated to wrap around another bar.

She let out a short breath of a laugh, and was regarding him with a slight, disbelieving smile. Bog brustled a little at that, feeling quite awkward and exposed. The simple exchange had taken what felt like ages.

The mortal woman turned suddenly, leaving to grab her bag again before returning to the front of the cell. He watched her intently, and inched back into the shadows, though not enough to be completely hidden. She sunk down, sitting right in front of the bars, and began eating her own meal.

He was struck by the strange, foolishly _trusting_ gesture, and even more so when she regarded him with an expectant look. She was waiting, perhaps anticipating some sort of outburst, perhaps hoping that he’d crumble before her eyes and be at her mercy. Bog maintained his suspicion, but sunk to a seated position where he was. Her look became satisfied, and her focus shifted.

The food in her lap looked to be the same as what she'd given him, and she was eating without hesitation. Mouth watering, Bog shoved his awkwardness and suspicion aside for the sake of sating his hunger.

Neither made an attempt to speak, but they continually studied each other, watching for sudden movements only to awkwardly meet the other’s eyes and immediately look away. When he had the chance, Bog took in the details of her appearance. Most mortals looked quite similar at a glance, but he could appreciate a moment devoted to seeing what set her apart. Her hair was short, practical, suitable for her type of work. Her clothing was not.  Her stature was also short, slim but simultaneously sturdy. Altogether quite unremarkable.

It was her face that was different, heart-shaped and...graceful, he supposed, was the word for it, smooth in that uncanny way that humans shared. Her eyelids were darker than any other human’s, though, and her lips were purple. It might be paint; he’d heard of such practices.

She caught him staring, and he knew she was smiling even as he quickly averted his gaze.

Her food was eaten more quickly than his, and she chirped something before getting to her feet. Bog watched, a slight tilt to his head, as she brushed the crumbs from her skirt and went to her cart. She pulled out a broom and returned, clearing away those very crumbs. He returned the empty box to her, and she took it with a nod before leaving him to think.

For better or for worse, she was different. She used no sneaking tactics, no weapons, but didn't cower either; all she did was fight back fairly, snarl for snarl. And offer him food. And sit with him like an equal. That, regardless of him being unused to it, he could work with. The only question was _how_ to form an alliance. Their languages had nothing in common, and he had to be _sure_ that he left no part of himself vulnerable to betrayal. Perhaps he could gesture…? If he could get her to bring him the keys to the collar and cell door, he felt confident that he could handle things alone from there.

Awkwardly, he continued to watch her work, waiting for the chance to catch her attention. Technically, he could’ve said something or growled, but uncertainty kept his throat closed. The woman was busy, anyways. It seemed best, or at least easiest, to wait.

Watching such basic tasks being completed ought to bore him, but if anything, the non-threatening presence struck him as a relief. She would speak occasionally as she worked, whether to him or to herself, he couldn’t be sure, and it filled the emptiness of the room. Though he understood none of her words, he _did_ catch her meaning perfectly when she came across the torturer’s coat, thrown carelessly across the back of a machine. He agreed wholeheartedly with her sneer and eyeroll of disgust at the dark, tacky green.

_“Roland,”_ she growled. Likely it was a name for the torturer, or perhaps a derogative or swear word. He noted it regardless.

_“Roland,”_ he parroted in a low grumble that dripped with hatred. It wasn't until he saw her head whip around, painted with a shocked expression, that he realized. He had spoken aloud. She had heard him. It had been unintentional; the less the humans knew about him, the better, but he still resented her clear shock. Did they _really_ think him so unintelligent?

She abruptly began patting through the garment, eventually procuring a small, rectangular object from it. He noticed her hands trembling as she opened it, approaching him all the while and then shoving the item towards him. Tucked inside it was a picture of the torturer that grinned sickly back at him.

“Roland,” the woman repeated again. He bristled; it was plain enough that she wanted to know if he understood. Hesitating slightly, he finally caved. Tapping the photo with a dark claw, he echoed her again.

_“Roland. Yes, I realize.”_

She was staring again, and he bristled defensively. His words were slow from the weeks of disuse, but their meaning wasn't lost on her. The woman’s cheeks puffed as she blew out a breath, and the hand holding the photo dropped to her side. She looked alarmed, guilty even, as though she had made a realization and was unsure of what to do with it. Eventually, she returned the item to its place inside the coat, and wadded it up carelessly before tossing it on her cart. She leaned into the bars again, eyes aflame with a feeling he couldn't quite place. Desperation, perhaps?

“Marianne,” she said, pointing at herself.

He moved closer, in spite of himself. He grasped the bars on either side of her, leaning in and covering her in shadow. She wasn't afraid. He was. She was different, was offering kindness in a place so utterly absent of it. He was desperate, didn't want to be, didn’t want to trust, but he was out of options.

“Mari...anne…” he mimicked, the name thoroughly foreign to him.

She smiled, was practically radiating awe. He swallowed his nerves, shook off his doubts. It was worth a try. Stepping away, he struck a regal pose and thumped his chest with a fist.

_“I am the Bog King.”_

Too much. She looked confused, was struggling to repeat the entire statement. He sighed, slightly waved both hands for her to stop, then gestured plainly back to himself.

_“Bog.”_

That was simpler, and would have to do.

“Bog…” she repeated. She made a vague, affirmative-sounding hum.

He nodded, then shifted restlessly, fingers curling and uncurling against the bars. Would she let him out if he asked? Where would he even _begin_ with asking; how could he be sure she--

Before he could so much as finish thinking, the tell-tale clatter of the opening door caused them both to start. She scrambled to her cart, and he nearly tripped back into the darkness. 


	5. Captivated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roland is in denial about...well, pretty much his entire situation over there.  
> Bog is in denial about secretly being a big softy.  
> Marianne no longer has the luxury of denial.

 

 

 

Roland Green had always considered himself an optimist.

Things in life had a way of working out well for him, and even when they didn’t, he was good at making them right again. _“Reliable,”_ is what his bosses said.  _“Persistent. Charming.”_ He knew how to handle people and situations, no matter how difficult. He was upright, self-made, the best of the best that naturally rose to the top--a model American man who people listened to and respected and loved.

Or at least, that was the idea. As of late--since the moment the sole of his shoe touched the soil of his homeland, to be specific--it was like all of creation decided to conspire against him.

For one, the Project. The goddamn _Project._

You’d think managing to _find_ the Asset would’ve been enough. You’d think outwitting its every attempt to escape and maul you would’ve done it too. You’d think managing to get it back to the States in one piece without killing it out of frustration or necessity would’ve been _enough._

He wasn’t even with R&D he was military. And yet, the scientists had none of the promised “secrets to immortality,” and somehow that was _his_ fault. For whatever reason, _he_ was in charge of delivering what might well be undeliverable. Perhaps that was the drawback of being so trusted. He aged five years just _thinking_ about how much longer the fruitless struggle could go on.

And lord, that was a frightening thought. Roland grabbed at the mirror on his desk and stared at himself in near-desperation, careful to avoid the raised cuts and faintly-green bruise that he’d covered with makeup. No frown lines-- _yet--_ but the purple-tinged bags underneath his eyes seemed to worsen by the day. He sighed, setting it down again, lamenting the beating his poor, undeserving face had endured. So much damage, and in such a few short days, and no end was in sight. The Asset needed to be cracked open, and _soon._ Then he could be done with it. And that was doable, wasn’t it? He just needed to stay focused, confident. He spun in his chair, eyes on the paneled ceiling, and tried to visualize.

The scientists weren’t keen on dissecting the overgrown cockroach; had protested that it was a “fascinating and complex creature,” and that they “just needed more time.” To take the fiftieth x-ray or something, god love ‘em. For people with such fancy tools and Ph.D’s, they didn’t seem to understand very simple concepts. Like “beat it ‘til it has no _choice_ but to heal itself,” and “if you won’t do it, I will.”

Granted, his own efforts had been… Well, the thing was stubborn. And a vicious bastard of a mangled stick insect. But if anything, that made him even more determined to find the thing’s damage threshold, or else catch it off guard. Somehow. It was, unfortunately, a little too crafty to be so simply observed. It had found and obliterated any cameras hidden in its cage. Otherwise, it would stubbornly wait until it was left alone to use its oh-so-magical powers, camouflaged and invisible among plastic leaves and branches.

But if he looked on the bright side, the Asset’s uncooperative attitude only _proved_ that it had secrets worth protecting. It was only a matter of outsmarting it, and really, how hard could that be?

Roland spun idly in his seat, considering. Perhaps if they simply hid the cameras better, even planted a few decoys for it to destroy and feel smug about... Surely, the scientists would have something smaller. Maybe it could be incorporated into the foliage inside of the cage? He jolted a little, and a broad, perfect, satisfied grin spread across his face. Looking once more at his reflection, he found himself admiring it. Even after so much hardship, he was still stunning in every way.

He was just going to get rid of the “habitat” aspect of the cage entirely. A simple camera could be placed just out of reach--preferably in a _tauntingly_ obvious spot--and the Asset would have nowhere to hide. It was brilliant, beautiful in its simplicity. And wasn’t that just like him?

After leaving a note with his secretary, there was nothing left to do but wait for the eggheads to get up to his office and adopt his plan. His thoughts drifted to the commendations for his capability, how his level-headedness would kick the Project back into gear. It very well might land him a promotion, a raise, and secure the admiring eyes of every girl he walked past.

Well. _Almost_ every girl.

Roland refused to let that particular point ruin his mood. Green eyes drifted to the security footage playing on the screens behind his desk, monochromed and buzzing with static. Thanks to frequent practice, he could easily single out the ones displaying the janitorial office, the cafeteria, and even the hallways she was assigned to clean (it hadn’t been difficult for him to nab a copy of her work schedule). Sadly, Marianne was nowhere in sight, so instead he had to imagine.

Roland thought of what might be different, if only he’d been more careful back in the day. He could go home, exhausted and at his wit’s end or beaming with the news of his success, and there she’d be either way, waiting with a cool drink. Her face would be relaxed in that warm, trusting,  _adoring_ smile, void of any harshness or darkness, just like he remembered. She’d return to those pretty dresses and bright colors, curled hair and a string of pearls, picturesque and fitting right into his perfect home. Work could dissolve into the dinners she’d make, always with something... _special_ for dessert, and everything would be wrapped up in the blissful safety of her father’s fortune.

Yes, that was the dream. Marianne might be a stubborn, disturbed force in her own way, but he still felt optimistic about making that fairy-tale life a reality. He was good with that sort of thing. He was, for heaven’s sake, Roland Green.

* * *

 

She had arrived to work on time today, and no one noticed, as Sunny was home sick. It didn't matter to Marianne. What _did_ was the spark of excitement that, of all things, had made her _eager_ to go back into work. It was new, perhaps a little sad if she took the time to think about it, but she didn’t want to question the way everything felt just a little less burdensome.

There was something new, _exciting_ to look forward to. So of course, time crept by in a taunting manner until lunch.

Marianne could feel her pulse jumping when, at long last, she found herself opening the laboratory door. The weight of her lunch sack was heavy in her hand, and she bit back a smile at the sight and sound of plastic leaves rustling in the distance. It seemed that she wasn’t the only excited one, and that...was a odd, pleasant feeling, the idea that she _wasn’t_ alone in her anticipation.

The door-- _finally_ \--clanged shut, and Marianne turned to greet her strange kind-of friend.

It still struck her as uncanny, the sight of him standing in the light, stooped but proud and earnest in his expression. She smiled, and the sound of her heels echoed in the large chamber as she made her way over.

“Hi,” was all she could think of in terms of a greeting, breathless and a little awkward.

His lips twitched in what she hoped was a partial smile. Otherwise, his craggy face seemed tense, and certainly was difficult to read, even as he made his own acknowledgement.

_“Marianne.”_

Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up about having another quiet, amiable lunch. She had never been good with uncomfortable situations, so she abruptly thrust the bag of food at him, uncertain and anxious. Bog fumbled to hold it, wide-eyed and bewildered as well. He stammered something, but all she needed to hear was the disquieted, unsure _“Ah…”_ to know that she had made the wrong move. His hands fidgeted, tightening on the bag then momentarily moving to hand it back to her, before finally he opted to set it down on the ground.

Straightening, eyes closed to avoid contact, he cleared his throat.

 _“Marianne,”_ he said again, and something about every time he said her name left her with goosebumps. Silent, she leaned in and grasped the bars between them, pouring her effort into showing that she was focused, listening.

His eyes were captivating, practically flooding her mind with the sense of urgency they held. A long, gnarled finger extended to point at the lock on the door. Her own eyes followed, blinked.

It was simple enough. It made her freeze, knuckles whitening from her iron grip on the iron cage.

Bog sighed a little, rustling and catching her eye again as he began pacing. He stopped in front of her again and pantomimed turning a key, causing her to hold up her hands and nod in response.

“I… Bog, I get it, I get it.”

He looked at her, full of expectation and wariness. Marianne tried not to imagine herself being tasked with diffusing a bomb, as there was already more than enough pressure to answer.

Accidentally misplacing a key that one _did_ have access too? That warranted enough trouble on its own. Stealing the one that could free the most valuable, secretive asset the institute had ever seen? Expecting jail time seemed unrealistically optimistic, and she wouldn’t be surprised if one of the higher-ups took her out himself. Perhaps that was unrealistic too. What wasn’t, however, was the fact that she (and therefore, Dawn) would be left floundering if she got caught.

Looking back at Bog, she couldn’t help but remember her first few encounters with him, the genuine fear he’d invoked. What would happen if she loosed that on the building and everyone in it?

The look on his face hardened at her reluctance. Before he could puff up his posture and storm away, Marianne bent to pick up the lunch sack and thrust it at him once more.

“Eat,” she commanded, gesturing briefly with one hand to clarify. He was startled again, and something about that flummoxed, unreserved look seemed to make the decision for her.

Without knowing what she was doing or why she was doing it, she headed towards the scientists’ work stations. Forcing herself to not look back at him, she began sifting through papers, rearranging and then carefully returning everything she encountered. There were photos, sketches, endless graphs and notes that seemed to mean nothing. She paused upon finding a map that, sure enough, had a single marker placed somewhere in Scotland. Her nerves twitched, whispered reminders that this was _very_ much not allowed. It was all quite interesting, but admittedly, she was relieved when she found no keys and could stop searching without feeling guilty.

She found Bog still standing where she’d left him, awkwardly clutching the packaged contents of half her pantry. His broad, spiked shoulders slumped when she shook her head in defeat. Marianne took seat next to him, knees curled up to her chest, and began divvying out their meal. Conflict continued to distract her, however, and even worse was recognizing that her uncertainty was not at all new. Of _course_ it horrified her, knowing that an intelligent _person_ was being held and abused like this, like an animal. And hell, she’d initially thought he was one too. Realizing that he wasn’t had stung, and she buried the feeling instead of confronting it, but doing so wasn’t an option anymore.

So. What to do?

Would anyone listen to her if she told them, how he really wasn’t murderous, only rightfully defensive and afraid? He had responded civilly to her attempts to reach out, had spoken with...or, well, _communicated_ with her as best he could. Didn’t that mean something? Surely they all would realize that he was deserving of better, would _give_ him better, if they only _knew._ They could continue trying to discover this “immortality,” but... _humanely._ Couldn’t they?

And how was that for unrealistic optimism? She knew how Roland and everyone like him treated those who were different. Hell, the entire _country_ seemed to have a problem when it came to common decency. If other humans had to rage, fight, and die for the chance to be treated as equals here, how did Bog, alien as he was, stand a chance at claiming their respect?  

She was getting political, and it hardly seemed the time, but the situation was _still_ worse the more she considered it. What obligation did he have, to do anything _other_ than fight? It was that or let the institute trample him, and she didn’t even consider that a possibility; knowing her own pride and unwillingness to suffer, it wasn’t just an unlikely idea, it was an appalling one. Guilt swelled in her, manifesting as a wave of nausea that forced her to set down her sandwich. The ability to live forever could change the world, remove disease and prevent suffering among _everyone._ In theory.

Marianne thought back to Roland, the possessive burn of his gaze when he spoke of such things. She felt her own, smoldering resentment, the hatred of being nothing but an object to him, a plaything that only he could touch. Put simply, people like him were bad at sharing.

It just….wasn’t _right._ Marianne felt a little weird, thinking those words. She’d never considered herself a _complete_ asshole, but certainly never a sinless paradigm of justice either. She was just the cleaning lady. But that didn’t make it any less true.

Her head fell into her hands; her throat let a groan slip out.

“This is so wrong. Everything is just so _wrong.”_

* * *

 

He was unprepared, unequipped, and feeling generally helpless when it came to this.

Bog had figured one of two things would happen: either Marianne would refuse him right away, or she’d try to help him escape. He supposed that, technically, the latter had happened. And that should’ve been a good thing. It _was_ a good thing.

And yet, here she was, overcome with some kind of negative emotion that he could neither understand or dispel, and it left _him_ disquieted. Should he... _try_ to comfort her? But how, _how_ in all of the heavens and earth was he going to do that?

He set his own food down as well (a strange, layered meal of bread, some kind of meat, and vegetables that he would’ve felt rude about removing right in front of her).

Since when did he worry about being _rude?_ Or providing _comfort?_

Maybe it was simply because he wanted to stay in the human’s good graces, therefore ensuring her aid. Maybe it was because, in spite of how little he understood about her world, he _did_ know that Marianne would be taking a great risk. She was an underling here, and weapons that tore through flesh and rained down lightning could very well be turned on her. He himself had condemned subjects to rot in his dungeons. Treason was not tolerated anywhere.

Her reaction made more sense, given that. Her help seemed all the more meaningful.

He was... _grateful_ for that. Being in debt was, at least culturally, something to be avoided. And that was the rationale he held to while hesitantly moving closer--he was simply being fair, adhering to the unwritten rules of human-goblin interaction. Coughing lightly, he opened his mouth to say her name, but it caught there, still netted in uncertainty.

Her head raised anyways, eyes peering out from the gaps between her fingers. A wan smile was all he could muster, and he gingerly grasped at the bar closest to her shoulder. Not a touch, certainly not a touch, but...hopefully it would convey the same idea.

She looked much as he had felt earlier; bewildered and taken aback, but...not necessarily in a negative way. Not that he could know that for certain. In fact, it was horribly, _horribly_ foolish to assume that he--of _all_ beings--could somehow offer genuine comfort, and he was just about to move away again, but her hand was touching his and--

_What._

It was slight, impersonal even. The smile she was making was grateful, but tired, and still lined with that fear-tinged uncertainty. It was only the chapped fingertips of one tiny hand, resting on top of his. It was only nothing and everything all at once.

What was it about her, that had him rooted in place? Was it merely his desperation, his utter reliance on her, that had twisted and snared him into a sense of unwarranted admiration? Or was it how, in spite of being so headstrong, she had been... _kind_ to him. And stars, _stop it;_ she was strange and confusing but he _didn’t_ need to make anything of it whatsoever.

His fingers began to curl away from her, but paused.

 _“Wait,”_ he blurted, reaching out once more.

 

* * *

Marianne was confused by the question there, phrased by manner of his open, waiting hand. Silently, almost immediately, she returned her fingertips to his palm anyways. Even on the most vulnerable parts of his body, his skin was rough, armor-like and made for the wilderness.

Curious and a little flustered, she watched the way he turned her hand over, focusing intently. Her skin was cracked and red from cleaning detergents and hot water, which made the bruises on her knuckles look worse than they were. Still, she had nearly forgotten the aftermath of clocking Roland a few days prior. Skincare wasn’t exactly a high priority of hers, and exacting swift revenge for his attempt to cop a feel had been worth it anyways.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Bog placing his other hand on top of hers. Briefly, he craned his neck to look suspiciously around the room, then returned his focus. The bewildered creases of her face only deepened, then stretched into shock when, of all things, he started _glowing._ Like a light passing beneath his skin, gold trailed along the fissures of his armor, flowing down his arms and along his fingers before disappearing between their hands. Marianne, at a loss for words-- or _any_ type of bodily movement--gaped at him. He let her hand go.

The bruises, the dryness and cracking, the aching, it was all gone. She brought it closer and continued staring, her fingers stroking along the pale, unblemished skin.

“Holy _shit.”_

She looked up at Bog again, his smirk indicating both amusement and self-satisfaction. A disbelieving laugh bubbled up and out of her.

“Holy _shit_ , Bog. You really are the real deal…”

He chuckled right back at her. Both of them sat there like idiots, sharing the light shakes and sounds that had snuck through the cracks of their tough, proud exteriors. There was no hesitation when he reached for her other hand; she let him heal her, and found herself feeling aglow, even as her former doubts threatened to return. She gave his hand a squeeze before letting go. Nimble and perfect, she repeated his key gesture, lightly touched her chest and then pointed to the door.

“I’ll keep looking. I’m gonna keep looking, okay?”

His face went sober, but his nod of understanding was urgent.

They went back to finishing their food, quiet and shadowed by the promise she’d made, hanging in the air and quite possibly threatening to come crashing down on them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that I'm trying to write a "The Shape of Water" AU and not a "Tangled" one. 
> 
> Also, guess who's going to try and start illustrating this! As if my updates didn't take long enough already. All jokes aside though, I finally sat down and taught myself how to (kinda) draw Bog, so why the hell not! So far there's the one for this chapter, and then another one that I added back in Chapter 2. (Edit: another has been added to Chapter 4!)
> 
> Thanks again for your patience and kind feedback, and I hope that you enjoy!


	6. Crushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momentary crimes in the midst of dark times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Finally back with another chapter, and just a heads-up, but this one has a very-much violent scene (at least in comparison to the rest of this fic so far), so please proceed with caution! It's also kinda dark and dialogue-heavy in general, so sorry if that's not your thing. I've been through so many drafts of this I've lost count, but I hope that all the work paid off and that you guys will enjoy it! Thanks again for reading!!

 

“What’s wrong?”

Oh, god. She can’t stand that.

It wasn’t that Marianne expected her sister to constantly be happy, of course. But  _ still.  _ It wasn’t like her to lose her smile, or to not have her pale brow pinched in concentration over her next masterpiece, or to have an empty, relaxed expression that belied a mind swirling with dreams and ideas. When those eyes filled with sadness, whenever Dawn seemed to be overcome by the seriousness and concern and weight of reality that haunted Marianne’s own mind, she felt an earth-shaking drive to put a broadsword through whatever had caused it. They didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but nobody,  _ nobody  _ hurt her baby sister.

So. What to do when  _ she _ was the source? What to do when, in the most unacceptable of situations possible, Dawn was worrying about  _ her? _

Sigh and sink down on the couch; that was a good start. Dawn settled down next to her, legs crossed and tucked primly beneath skirt, and looked at her expectantly. 

“It’s...something. I’m stressed about a thing, but it’s-- _ complicated. _ ”

“That’s...really un-specific.”

Marianne half-sighed, half-laughed. “Yeah, well… I don’t really know how to explain it to myself, even. I told myself I wasn’t gonna get involved with anyone, not after--”

Dawn gasped like she’d just been shot. “THERE’S A GUY?”

_ “Wh-?  _ No! Well--”

“There  _ is!  _ Oh my gosh, Marianne, this is  _ huge _ for you! Tell me everything!”

“Dawn,  _ no; _ why is that always the first place your mind goes? There’s no potential-romancey things happening here. I-- Kind of,  _ super _ the opposite.”

“Oh…”

And there Dawn was again, those eyes glistening. Marianne felt regret strong enough to consider lying about some vaguely-perfect boyfriend who definitely existed;  _ anything _ to avoid making her worry. Given that she had all the social tact of a rhinoceros, intimate discussions--even with someone as close and benevolent as Dawn--were not her strong point. And yet, difficult as it was, she found herself aching to open up, to not feel alone, to  _ breathe _ from underneath the weight of her dilemma.

“I-- Okay. You remember that new Asset I told you about?”

“The one that scared you and Sunny? The monster?”

“Okay, I was  _ not _ scared. But…yeah, that’s the one.”

Her sister continued staring, and though it felt thicker and stronger by the minute, Marianne continued to push through her discomfort. 

“It’s just… Cleaning that lab,  _ seeing _ him almost every day--”

“Who?”

“Bog. The asset.”

Dawn wrinkled her nose in bewilderment. “It has a name?”

_ “He _ has a name. And...yeah. He told me himself.”

“What do you  _ mean, _ he--”

“Dawn, please, just let me explain, okay?” The request felt harsh, but Marianne felt desperate to spill her thoughts, and she had to do it before she lost her nerve. She hunched over a little, eyes straight forward as though she was addressing thin air.

“It started with me feeding him; he was hungry, and I don’t know, I just kind of  _ did _ it.  But then he was  _ talking _ to me. Not in English, but I… We kind of gesture? I-- The point is, he’s  _ smart _ , he’s  _ capable.  _ He-- He’s just like you and me, only he looks different.”

Dawn remained quiet, but still Marianne avoided her gaze. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to know what the look on her face was, how she was reacting to such a tall and unbalanced-sounding tale. It was that...she knew, somehow, or perhaps just believed, that making that contact would break her.

“Dawn, they’re doing...awful,  _ messed-up _ things to him in there. I mean, for god’s sake, he’s in a  _ cage.  _ He’s always starved when I visit, and half the time he’s out cold from who knows what.” She swallowed down the memory of blood, the stains that she didn’t want to expose her sister to. “It’s just… It’s  _ wrong, _ it feels so,  _ so _ wrong.”

Inappropriate as it felt, she laughed a little, feeling bitter and helpless and  _ pathetic _ for being so emotional, so  _ fragile _ .

“And you know me. This...this moral-dilemma stuff? Not my thing. But...it’s just so  _ wrong _ , and god, I can’t stand it. It’s not like anyone there is gonna believe me, or even listen in the  _ first _ place, so I... I don’t know what to do.”

After a still, but gentler moment of quiet, Marianne finally looked up again. In all honesty, she’d been expecting Dawn to be just as--if not  _ more-- _ outraged about the situation. She was the one who was sweet and caring and empathetic, and though that hadn’t vanished, it appeared that such attitudes did not apply to seven-foot bug men.

She looked concerned, yes, but still confused and perhaps judgmental, enough so to make Marianne tense.

_ This is crazy. I’ve got to look absolutely  _ **_crazy._ **

“That...that’s  _ awful. _ But I don’t think… Mari, is there even anything you  _ can _ do?”

She smirked a little at that, and Dawn quickly doubled back.

“I mean,  _ no, _ this is-- You  _ don’t _ mean letting it-- _ him _ out, right? Marianne, you could get in  _ so _ much trouble--”

“I know.”

“What if you went to jail?”

She winced. “I know-”

“Daddy would be so--”

The wince became a crushed sort of scowl. “I  _ know.” _

“What if he hurt you, or  _ killed _ you even?”

She started a little, blurting defensively, “He wouldn’t!”

“How do you know?” Dawn cried, and neither had noticed it happening, but they had begun yelling. “It’s probably just...just  _ trying _ to get you to let it out!”

Marianne didn’t have definite proof against that. It was very well a possibility, and yet, she didn’t want to believe it. She  _ trusted _ Bog. And oh, hell. She had to get up and pace, but it didn’t help much, especially not while Dawn continued her argument. She sounded desperate to reason with her, sounded level-headed and right, which in turn made her sound wrong.

“If it’s so smart, of  _ course _ it’d pretend to like you! And--and-- Marianne, it’s… He’s  _ gotta _ be in there for a reason. You said he almost  _ killed _ Roland; he’s dangerous!”

“Okay, well--! I don’t know  _ that _ for sure either!”

“That’s not what you said the first time you told me about him! You said--”

“God, I was  _ wrong, _ okay? It was just...a snap judgement…” She trailed off, finally registering that Dawn was sniffling. God knew how she could cry and glare at the same time, but she pulled it off expertly. There were too many emotions flying around, and Marianne wished she could just open the window, let them blow themselves out.

She let her rigid, tense movements buckle, causing her to deflate back onto the couch, bent over and head hanging with hands tangled into her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, it’s just… I swear, Dawn, I wouldn’t make this up. I’m just-- I’m going  _ crazy, _ just watching him get treated like that. I want to get him out, I just...don’t know how.”

Two slim, gentle hands gripped at her arm in a pleading fashion.

“Marianne,  _ please, _ y-you can’t do this. I know...I know you don’t wanna hear that, but just…  _ Please. _ I don’t want you to get hurt.”

_ “He’s  _ being hurt right now!”

“I--  _ Ugh!” _ Dawn let her go, mainly so she make vague, frustrated gestures. “Okay, but-!  How does it help  _ anyone _ i-if you get caught, and you probably--you  _ definitely _ will!  _ Please.” _ She sounded desperate again, frightened even. “I know you care, b-but… There’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry, Mari, but… There’s some things we just can’t fix.”

Her words rang with truth and complacency all at once, and Marianne felt the stab of both. Half of her thought of lynchings and riots, jeering comments and her friend in chains, and welled with despair at the enormity of it all. The other half wanted to grab Dawn by the shoulders and shake until the hopelessness fell out, because god, there had to be  _ something. _

Maybe there was, maybe there wasn’t. Either way, it seemed that she had to go it alone.

Marianne nodded at her sister as if in defeat, but her heart was still raging, still unwilling to accept the offered solution. Dawn said something she didn’t quite catch and got up, leaving the room quietly. Leaving Marianne to her burning.

It hurt a little more, hearing the words  _ “you can’t,”  _ from Dawn, and even more so because she was probably right. And yet, every time she’d heard it before: when she went to university, when she left home, when she called off the wedding… She’d done it anyways. And, harsh as the consequences could be, it was liberating; it felt  _ right.  _ She was spitfire and stubbornness, countless unladylike and violent tendencies all wrapped up into one bizarre, rather unlikeable Marianne Springfield. And she would much rather be that than the world.

There had to be something.

So she got up, looked around Dawn’s studio as though it was an alien planet. A stray, slightly-used stick of drawing charcoal was resting on a table nearby, and it was perfect. 

Another lump of guilt added itself to the issues pile, and she prayed a silent apology to Dawn before leaving, the charcoal tucked into her pocket.

 

* * *

 

It had taken a bit of sleuthing, singling out the nervous man she’d seen with the ring of keys. It was more than likely that Roland also had copies, but she considered that to be a last resort. It was easier anyways; the so-far nameless administrative figure didn’t notice her when she followed him, and his office was at the end of a small, conveniently-inconspicuous hallway. Provided that she chose the right time, and that he didn’t carry them on his person all day, copying the keys ought to be relatively simple.

She decided to strike during lunch. At five past noon she found herself headed back, this time nervous and disbelieving of what she was about to do. The high-security wing almost entirely void of life, but that somehow only served to make the tension worse. Her gait was hurried and awkward from the way she shifted her weight to the front of her feet, hoping to avoid the sound her heels would make on the linoleum, and reaching the office door felt like catching sight of a marathon’s finish line.

Marianne had imagined herself relaxing as soon as she slipped in, given that the door, once shut, would be a shield between her and the rest of the institute. No such luck, of course. It seemed that she’d forgotten how to relax. Even alone, her heart thudded wildly, which was getting obnoxious more than anything, and she was close to biting the skin off her lower lip.

She slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, and silently reminded herself to wipe off the door handle as she left. Paranoid, perhaps, but she didn’t want to leave anything to chance. It was still crazy, so reckless and  _ incredibly _ stupid, what she was doing. But she had little time to waste.

It took her only a minute of rummaging to find the keys. They looked ordinary enough, only three in number and dully reflecting the light fixtures, but their ability to shift pins in a lock meant all the world to her and Bog.

_ From senator’s daughter to hardened criminal, _ she thought to herself, unpocketing the charcoal and a roll of cellophane tape.  _ A hardened criminal who’s using arts ‘n crafts supplies. After this, I ought to try robbing Fort Knox with crayons. _

Quickly, she rubbed the charcoal stick against one side of the key, careful to keep it over the dustbin. She set it down on the desk, tore off a strip of tape, and hesitated. The little movement felt disproportionately important, but she held it above the blackened key and pressed it down with more care than she’d give a family heirloom. The tape came away with a perfect impression of the key; all of its grooves and notches ready and waiting to be copied. And, fear of being caught and imprisoned for life aside, she felt quite satisfied with herself.

She felt paranoid about the charcoal smudging, and had elected to bring the scrap metal with her. It too came out of her pocket, and the tape was carefully pressed onto it before she began with the others, more confident and less shaky after the first success. Once she was home, she could bring out the scissors and  _ voila _ . From the lid of a tin can to Bog’s liberation. Who’da thunk?

Once finished, she wiped down the keys, rustled the trash to hide any sign of dust, and set everything back in its place. Her gloves came off, and yes, she remembered the door handle on her way out.

And...that was it. So much terror for nothing, not that she was complaining. Near dizzy with relief, she hurried over to the lab, looking forward to finishing the period with Bog, food, and relative peace. 

Marianne found herself humming a little while the door rumbled open. It was abnormal for her to be so cheerful, practically  _ giddy _ , and though the current circumstances were more than a little abnormal themselves, she was quickly reminded  _ why _ such optimism was dangerous. 

She remained frozen in the doorway, thought processes skipping like a record.

It was all wrong-- The enclosure was empty, not just of Bog, but reduced to bare concrete and iron bars, but then-- _ there. _ There was where the words ended, cognitive thought replaced by an unspeakable sense of horror that felt rather like her lungs collapsing.

He’d been left there for god knew how long, chained on his knees in a hunched position. Blood was--god,  _ god _ it was everywhere. His body heaved in labored breaths, and his head had jerked sharply up to look at her, meeting her eyes in a way that shattered everything.

Her fist slammed the button to close the door. 

_ “Fuck,”  _ she gasped, honest to god  _ gasped. _ She was next to him in an instant, heedless of the smell and feel and sight of so much metallic, congealing red. Her hands shook, jerking at chain links that would not give, her grip impressing them into her palms. 

Why the  _ fuck _ hadn’t she just  _ taken _ the goddamn keys?

_ “Marianne,  _ **_Marianne,_ ** _ ”  _ he rasped for her attention, somehow  _ calm, _ for some reason trying to reassure her.

She looked at him again, watched as he shifted (as much as possible) and sent a brief glow of orange-tinted gold rippling underneath his scales. He made a face that, though conveying clearly how much he’d like to strangle Roland with his own chains for putting him here, was fairly relaxed and completely focused on her. 

Having slowed down, she realized that he didn’t  _ appear _ to be hurt. Just the same, her hands gingerly touched his chest, moved to check his face. He froze at the contact, staring wide-eyed at her, but he did not flinch from pain and she finally felt sure. At least for now, he wasn’t hurting. 

Marianne slumped, head and shoulders hanging in relief. Tears--useless, guilt-ridden things that they were--flooded her eyes and she blinked them back. Relief, however, only made room for the next all-consuming wave of emotion, which was turning out to be  _ rage. _ She let out a shaking breath, hands balling into fists, because how could they, how fucking  _ dare _ they, what kind of monsters  _ were _ they?

“I shouldn’t’ve let this happen,” she seethed. It wasn’t as though he could understand, but the anger seared, making her feel like she  _ had _ to say it. “I’m gonna get you out of here, Bog. I  _ promise. _ No mo--”

And perhaps she was being punished for something--her lifestyle of cynicism and deviance, perhaps, or maybe fate was just a dick--because the door began the heavy, shuddering process of opening behind them. 

The two shared a look of identical panic, and for all she wanted to stay and stand between him and danger, she knew she had to, with frantic glances he was  _ urging _ her to.

She bolted away from the door, away from Bog _. _ Marianne ducked behind a cluster of unused machinery and storage containers, pressed her back against one of them, and tried for all she was worth to keep her breathing silent.

Behind her, distant now, she heard the door finish opening. Bog snarled over the faint sound of footsteps, but otherwise it was silent, so deathly still that she couldn’t stand it. She risked a look from around the corner, and her heart decided to take a quick trip to the underworld and plummet from her chest.

Roland set down a folding chair and rested a foot on its seat, his pose and expression casual as he leaned over his prisoner. In his hand was a cattle prod. Over his shoulders, a handgun holster.

“Well now,” he drawled. “Look at you, all fit as a fiddle. That really ain’t playin’ fair, y’know, fixin’ yourself up while I took my break.”

Bog met him with a defiant sneer, dripping venom with his silence.

Her heart lurched when Roland jabbed him with the weapon, and though perhaps she should’ve been grateful it wasn’t on, the taunting gesture made her face contort in fury.

“But you can’t hide that anymore now, can you?”

Roland traced the tip of the cattle prod across the scales on Bog’s chest, his expression empty and cold and  _ terrible.  _ Marianne was unprepared for the swift, abrupt movement, the sound that was somewhere between clicking and buzzing, the way Bog strained against the chains and cried out in pain. It sent her back into hiding, pressed closer against the cold metal with her eyes screwed shut.

The sounds kept coming, Roland shouting vague accusations between them, and she let it all blur around her. 

“I can’t fucking  _ wait _ to be done with you. D’you have any  _ idea _ what you’ve put me through?”

God,  _ god-- _ she’d never felt so angry, so helpless that she wanted to  _ scream. _ But she couldn’t. Her stomach was heaving and tying itself in knots, but she  _ couldn’t _ let herself be sick, and each repressed reaction only served to amplify the racing panic of instinct and emotion.

She was shaking by the time he stopped. Clanking sounds of chains and the cage being opened, scuffs of chitin being dragged against the floor, and the turn of keys in the lock all echoed out. Other sounds she couldn’t give names to. All she would let herself think of was staying still, how it was a miracle that her knees hadn’t given out yet. 

When the door finally rumbled shut, she again peered out from her hiding spot. The instant she knew for sure that they had gone, she stumbled out into the open again. She wanted to run back to him, to fuss and fume even though she knew it would just take a moment for the wounds to heal, or at least, the physical ones.

But worse, worse, and still worse.

She saw at once what the other noises had been, what Roland had meant. And she stood there, trembling, unable to do anything beyond stare at Bog, her hands still smeared with red and pathetically twitching to reach out. But she couldn’t. Their eyes met, the distance between them blurring the connection, but still, they both knew that she couldn’t.

A new barrier sat between them, resting on a chair and pointed straight at his prone form. A stupid, simple camera that left them both alone and trapped and helpless.

 

* * *

 

Her hands froze mid-cut when the door opened, then was shut again with a grace and gentleness that only Dawn could manage.

Marianne took a steadying breath, then continued with her task. She didn’t so much as look up, let alone consider a mad scramble to hide what she was working on. It would’ve been too obvious, for one, but Marianne was mostly just distracted. Throwing-herself-entirely-into-a-job-and-not-allowing-herself-to-think distracted.

Their argument from earlier had been left unfinished, and both knew it. As much as the time apart had given them time to cool down, it felt more like a wrongly-mended sinew, the strain between them twisted and worse than ever. Given that and the absolute war zone of a day that she’d had, there was no way in hell that Marianne was going to try and make the first move.

But they loved each other. When Dawn moved to pull out a chair, sit down next to her, Marianne let herself stop cutting key notches.

“What’re you... _ doing?” _ Her baby sister asked, looking over the makeshift keys and leftover scrap metal.

“Exactly what it looks like.”

Dawn let out a brief, unbelieving, and dismayed breath.

“Marianne,  _ no--” _

“Dawn, I  _ have _ to. I have to get him out.”

“ _ No, _ no you don’t!”

“You don’t understand,” she spilled, hating how her voice cracked and betrayed her. “They’re gonna kill him if I don’t, and he’s all  _ alone!” _

“I don’t know what to  _ say, _ even,” Dawn said, almost laughing, and Marianne knew that it came from her own desperation, her own drive to protect someone she cared about. It hurt to do this to her, to put her on the receiving end of her stubbornness, but is was this or outright lying to her. Perhaps though, even that might have hurt her less. “You  _ know _ you’re not responsible for this, right? I just… I just don’t  _ get _ why you think you don’t have a choice.”

“God, I-- Dawn, I’m not saying that. Maybe I didn’t put him there, but hell, I’m the only one who _gives_ a shit; I’m the only one who _can_ help him. And doing nothing… I can’t even _tell_ you. It’s killing me already, so y’know what? I might as well choose to do something or die trying.”

“No, no no  _ no. _ Marianne,  _ listen _ to yourself!” Dawn moaned, sounding genuinely frightened. “That’s crazy! Do you even  _ know _ h-how bad that thought is? It’s just not worth it;  _ nothing _ could be worth you losing everything. I-- Oh my god, Marianne, it's not even  _ human.” _

A heartbreaking boulder of disgust and disbelief fell, spiked with a contradictory bit of understanding. She sounded every bit as torn and emotional when she retorted in a low, breaking voice, “He’s a  _ person.” _

And as battered as she felt, the pain swelled within her, seeming to prop her broken pieces up and strengthen her. She grabbed her sister’s shoulders and held her, wishing she could send understanding coursing through her fingertips and into Dawn like an electric current. 

“Listen, I-- I can just look at him, and know almost exactly what he’s thinking. He’s  _ expressive;  _ tries to act all tough but I  _ know _ he’s afraid. And maybe it took us a while, but we  _ trust _ each other, and… Every time I showed up, he was  _ happy _ to see me.” 

As though it was a miracle, she found the words coming with more conviction and less hesitation. She didn’t quite think of how she felt, but it was  _ there, _ and the way she’d worded it before was perfect:  _ aglow. _ She was, at least for the moment, aglow--emboldened and determined and strong. 

“Just the way he  _ looks  _ at me-- No one’s  _ ever _ looked at me like that before,” she continued, breaking out in a brief, shaky smile. “He doesn’t care how different I am; he  _ literally  _ can’t understand me and he still  _ tries _ to, Dawn, he still tries  _ so _ hard. And I--”

“You're in  _ love _ with it.”

Marianne blinked, utterly thrown off by the blunt, quiet statement, delivered with the tearful eyes of a sister who felt as though she’d already been lost. It was an observation, an accusation. She wasn't sure which, but either way, it rang with a deadly, nigh offensive accuracy. 

  
Dawn pulled away, met with no resistance, and Marianne still gaped and sputtered helplessly because now everything,  _ everything _ was in shambles.


	7. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn reconsiders, Marianne can't catch a break, and Bog has a realization. Also, will someone PLEASE launch Roland into the sun.

When in doubt--or more accurately, crippling worry and frustration--Dawn found that a quick step away from reality was the best course of action. It was time to calm down, for one. For another, it was an escape, a moment where everything wrong would just disappear, a way to slip away and _breathe_.

So breathe she did.

Her fingers seemed to move over the keys without conscious guidance, as though controlled by another person entirely, as though she was the audience and not the player. Every breath swelled and released, deep and natural and calming. The melody was slow and sweet, every measure coming and going like a flowing current. Her eyes closed to let it wash over her, and _duh,_ that was a mistake.

Years of practice or no, she still needed the sheet music for this one. Her hand stumbled; the abrupt, tuneless noise coming from the piano sounded like a protest. With that, the spell broke and there she was again, thrust back into reality and struggling for breath.

Dawn sighed and rubbed her palms into her eyes, still raw and a little itchy from crying.

She still didn't want to think about it.

The piano reciprocated her empty stare, the black keys looking like vacant pupils among the white. The sheet music seemed to dance wherever she wasn't focused. Its title--a series of question marks rather than words--wiggled at her in a demanding, almost angry way.

 _What and why and how and what_ **_now_ ** _?_

Questions, uncertainty, _ugh._ Usually, she found it funny and endearing whenever Sunny titled his pieces “??????” He was horrible with coming up with names, always had been, and it was cute. She tried to focus on that. She could just imagine his face, screwed in concentration, probably tapping a pencil against his forehead until he threw out his arms and sighed in defeat.

Dawn sighed herself. He was endearingly hopeless in that regard and she loved him for it, among other countless other things.

That was hopeless too, in a way that wasn’t endearing at all.

She’d spent every minute of high school getting to know every guy she could, attending lavish parties and painstakingly-planned dates, but it wasn’t enough. The constant activity was exciting, the romanticized thought of romance all she could think about, but still. Nothing ever seemed to click. She wanted to turn back the wasted time, yell at herself that the real answer was right there, had been by her side for as long as she could remember. Right now, it was too late. Sunny was forever just barely out of reach.

It still angered and confused her, left her wanting to shove back anyways, but she knew it wasn’t worth it. The backlash would scarcely touch her, instead piling on Sunny, and she couldn’t bear the thought. It was so unfair. And difficult. But as real as her feelings were, and as much as she knew how her sister must feel the same, it just couldn’t be worth it.

How could she make Marianne _realize_ that?

She was stubborn--to a fault, according to their father. Dawn wasn’t sure she wanted to agree with that, because although she was frustrated, Dawn didn’t want to paint her sister’s iron will as a _bad_ thing. Because it _wasn’t,_ not in itself _._ She just...wanted different things. And couldn’t take “no” for an answer. She refused to be controlled or a part of anything she believed was wrong; she went out of her way to protect, to love in her own way, entirely unafraid of what others might think of her for doing so. Weren’t those _good_ things?

But the _law._ The _consequences._ Dawn could admire her sister’s bravery, but her own fear was intense. It was one thing for them to strike out on their own, another entirely to steal away a specimen from a top-secret research institution. No matter how human it... _he_ may be, it couldn’t be worth Marianne risking the life she’d worked so hard to create.

Much to her own dismay, Dawn felt her conviction waver.

Marianne _wanted_ to risk it. And that said a lot. She’d been acting differently over this, been more open and passionate than Dawn had seen her in ages. Given that, it was impossible to ignore that those things, at least to some degree, had been missing before.

It made sense. Being hurt could harden you off, make you cynical and distrusting. Marianne had every right to be angry with Roland, with Dad, maybe even with her, but the way she isolated herself was heartbreaking. What did Marianne do besides work these days? Who did she connect with, other than herself and Sunny? Was she really free; was this life she’d worked for really enough?

Maybe what was _really_ worth fearing was just that: closing yourself off, accepting the walls people trapped you in and choosing to live there, slowly suffocating and wistfully dreaming of what could be.

Dawn looked back to the sheet music, then over to one of the many stacks of paper on her desk. More sheet music, jokes, silly doodles--countless letters that she had read countless times. It was _something_ , a compromise, a way to momentarily slip between the walls, but her heart ached for more.

The way things were now? It wasn’t enough.

 

* * *

 

The plan had been to free him as soon as she could. She had the forged keys with her, and just about as important, a steely resolve to end this nightmare her damn self.

The plan was also revealing itself to be...well, lacking.

For one, walking through the doors and in the elevator, down  the hallways and past security--it all made Marianne painfully aware that unlocking the cage and giving Bog a handshake for good luck _might_ not be enough. For another, she hadn’t thought out a good way to work around the surveillance camera. She could easily destroy it, cut off its power, turn it away from where she needed to be--the problem was that any change to the feed would alert Roland and _really_ ruin Bog’s chances of making it out of the facility.

She also was worried about what would happen even if he did escape. Where would he go? What would he do, all alone out there; wander the countryside like a new-age Sasquatch?

And of course, all of those questions were _completely_ pointless, given that she couldn’t for the life of her get a moment alone in the lab.

Marianne had showed up in order to “work” through her lunch again only to find that Roland and his team had the same idea. He was, of course, absolutely delighted at the chance to harass her, and didn’t seem to care about the rest of the staff being within hearing range.

And so there she was, left to stew in her own personalized version of hell. The keys were _right there_ in her pocket, Bog was _right there_ in the cell, and she had to just clean and avoid eye contact as though nothing was wrong, as though _technically,_ she couldn’t just run up and do it and to fucking hell with the consequences.

It was all just a matter of breathing, of trying and failing to not let herself glance over at him. Bog was battered and seemingly detached, but his gaze met hers once or twice, causing her to sharply inhale at the jolt of strange, guilted pain they brought forth. Just from the brief connection, Marianne could tell that he felt the same tension, the same frustration at yet another setback. She prayed that whatever else her eyes communicated back to him, _“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,”_ was in there somewhere.

It was a nice thought, at least. Difficult to appreciate given the background noise, however.

“...I’m thinkin’ maybe I’ll even retire early,” Roland said, his croon like sandpaper to her ears. “Wouldn’t that be nice? All the time in the world to relax, spend time with family, really get to be _part_ of high-society…”

The man leaned against the wall she was scrubbing blood spatters from, arms crossed as he gazed wistfully into the non-existent distance. He was very focused on being dramatic, only stopping to glance and check her reaction every two seconds. His position was so precarious, so exaggeratedly casual that all it would take was one kick to knock him down. She was physically straining to avoid the temptation.

“Now, if _only_ I had someone to share it with.”

She closed her eyes for a second, knowing that he was probably grinning at her like an especially obnoxious dental ad. Looking up, she found that of _course_ he was. She twitched again, longing to send him sprawling.

Instead, she settled for briskly getting up and gathering her supplies with a derisive snort. “Roland, I’d rather join an honest-to-god convent.”

“Oh, c’mon sweetheart,” he laughed. “You? In a place like that?”

“Uh, exactly.”

He sighed in pitiful exasperation, but at least for a moment, there was no other response from him. She was cautiously hopeful that he’d worn himself out, and turned her back with a sense of finality.

Perhaps she should’ve known better, because somehow, it still was jarring when he started up again. All of his cheerful-pretense was gone, revealing the desperate, unsettling entitlement that ran beneath it.

“My god, Marianne, I just don’t _get_ it. Why isn't givin' you my all _enough?”_

She opened her mouth to snap at him, but he grabbed at her shoulder to make her face him, causing her to stumble as she jerked away.

Behind them, the scientists and whoever-the-hell-else were silent, uncomfortable, their faces turned down towards their work as though that made them innocently oblivious. A foolish glance at Bog revealed that his head was turned away, but he was still watching from the corner of his eye, brow furrowed and jaw clenched. A room full of people and she was  _still_ alone.

“Back. Off,” she snarled at Roland.

He didn’t.

“Just... _tell_ me what it is you want, alright?”

“I _want_ you to leave me alone!” Her voice was an angered hiss, but there was also a nervous, almost shaky twinge to it.

“That ain’t what I--! _”_

He turned away, briefly touching his forehead and taking a sharp, forceful breath. One of the other employees in the room coughed, causing him to finally look back and remember their presence.

With another sigh, he mustered up his smile again.

“Let’s...finish this lil' talk somewhere else.”

She almost laughed. “Are you kidding me? No!”

“Marianne, I wasn’t _askin’.”_

Her nostrils flared. He said something around the lines of “follow me," but she couldn’t quite hear though all the rage, and--even worse--the newfound sense of _dread._ She balled her fists at her sides and let Roland lead her off to the side of the lab, hating every minute of it.

They went past the jumble of unused storage containers and machinery that she’d hidden behind (somehow only _yesterday),_ and towards a door that she hadn’t noticed before. Through it lay a dimly-lit hallway lined with pipes--an access space of some sort. Whatever it was, being alone there with him made her skin crawl.  Roland had his back to her and his head hanging, and god, _why_ couldn’t he realize that no amount of pageantry was going to make her pity him?

“Buttercup,” he sighed, _“Darlin’._ You know I don’t like to yell like this.”

He shifted, the profile of his face both illuminated by the dim light and cast with deep shadows. Marianne crossed her arms, looking defiant but feeling defensive.

“It’s not like I’m holding a gun to your head and making you.”

He groaned, waving an exasperated hand at her. “See? That's exactly the problem here..this _nastiness_ . I'm  _tryin'_ to be nice here, but you really ain't givin' me much choice.” Though for a moment he’d regained his usual composure and sugary, patronizing drawl, it waned back into clear anger. “I’m the one callin’ shots in this lab, and long as you’re workin’ here, you’re gonna show me the respect I deserve. I mean really, throwin’ a fit out in front of my team like that?”

She remained silent, not allowing herself to so much as  _think,_ because if she did she was ninety-percent sure she'd try to kill him.

“I don’t wanna do this, but Marianne, you _know_ I could have you fired.” He paused, adjusting his tie before sighing again. “And I'd just hate to see you struggle when you don't have to. All I’m askin’ is for you to think-- _really_ think this over. Think you can manage that?”

 _Fuck it. Fuck_ **_him._ ** _I don't have to stay here._

She closed her eyes tight, but the sight of the cage and the blood and those vivid blue eyes remained.

_Yeah, I do._

Unclenching her jaw, she let out a low, terse reply that felt bitter on her tongue. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

Roland visibly relaxed, his expression sweet in the same way that fly traps were.

“That’s my girl.”

He brushed past her and returned to the lab, leaving her alone to cling to herself and try not to be sick. And god, how fucked up was _that?_ For all that she hated him, didn’t want to so much as live on the same _planet_ as him, she’d never been... _afraid_ of him before. For god's sake, this was Roland she was talking about. It felt pathetic on her end. She deemed it a sign that she just had to be stronger, push back harder.

She didn’t allow herself a _nervous_ glance over her shoulder. It was simply a rational, careful check to ensure that no one would see her, and there was a difference.

Stepping quickly over the dusty, uneven concrete floor, she followed the hallway, twisting and turning a few times before finding that it ended in the boiler room, fairly close to the maintenance office and janitorial lockers. And now that, _that_ was interesting.

 

* * *

 

The minute she was off the bus, Marianne moved as fast as she could without full-on running, wanting to be inside her apartment, wanting to feel _secure._ It was a pretty shitty feeling, whatever was going on in her head right now. Some kind of unholy conglomeration of _bad--_ that was the best she could do in terms of putting it into words. She slipped on a stair step in her haste, barely catching herself and hating how her racing heart made everything feel worse. The door was like a finish line, and in seconds she was inside. Marianne slammed the door closed behind her and leaned against it, eyes closed and breath heavy with relief.

“Are you okay?”

Marianne loved her sister. But _fuuuuuuuuuuuuucking hell._

She kept her eyes shut and draped an arm over them for good measure. “Peachy. Just... _please_ tell me we’re not going in for round three right now.”

“Did you let him out? Is that it?”

With a sigh and bloodshot, squinted eyes, she finally looked at Dawn. She was sitting at the table, arms braced to push herself up and looking genuinely concerned. 

“...no. I didn’t get the chance.”

“Oh.”

Marianne moved to cross her arms over her chest. It was best to leave things there; Dawn didn’t need to hear about Roland trying to break his own record in creepy assholery.

“Well, good. We _really_ should come up with a plan first--a really _really_ good one so--”

Evidently, you could interrupt someone just by staring if you were shocked stupid enough.

Dawn blinked back at her. “What?”

_“What?”_

“Oh, right. I know, I know, it’s just… I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. This is important to you, and I wanna help.”

Marianne was at a loss for words. Thoughts too, it would seem. Dawn wet her lips and took it as a sign to keep talking, her hands clasped in her lap.

“You're unhappy,” Dawn said. Her voice was gentle, but the words stung her chest like heartburn. “I think that deep down, I knew it all this time, a-and I never did _anything_ about it. I thought maybe you just needed some time, but--”

Marianne couldn't stand it, how her sister's wide, well-meaning eyes brimmed with sorrow and her voice cracked with guilt. This was _exactly_ why these things needed to be left buried. It wasn't worth it, _she_ wasn't worth it.

“Dawn, Dawn _no,”_ she breathed, quickly leaving the door’s support and crouching in front of her. “You didn't do _anything_ wrong. You don’t have to--”

“Listen, okay?”

It was an echo of her own, earlier request, and thinking back to that gave her a sense of understanding. With a swallow, Marianne nodded.

“I need to look out for you too sometimes, you know? And...you care about this--you care about _him._ When you talked about him, I saw you happier than I’ve seen you in _ages,_ and if you need to do this then...then I’m in!”

Marianne reached over to grasp her hand, but she kept her gaze down. One more look at Dawn’s face would be enough to start her sobbing, and she’d _really_ had her fill of exhausting emotional stuff today. With a deep breath and pinched lips, she tried to put her thoughts into words.

“I… That...means a lot to me. That means so, _so_ much. But there’s no way in _hell_ I’m putting you in harm’s way.”

Dawn blew a raspberry at her. “Oh, so it’s fine when _you_ do it--”

“Yup, exactly.”

“How’re you planning to get him out then, huh? Walk him through the front doors? Take him on the bus?”

Marianne faltered, and Dawn seized the opportunity to playfully smack her head with her own hand.

“I know you’ve got a brain in there somewhere!”

“Ow! Dawn-!”

“You need a plan, silly! An escape driver! I can meet you at a back door or something-- Do you guys have a back door?”

Marianne finally managed to wrestle out of Dawn’s grasp, falling backwards from the momentum and unable to keep back a short, overwhelmed giggle.

“Oh my god,” she groaned, letting herself drop fully onto the floor. “I’ve corrupted you.”

Dawn lightly poked at her side with a toe. “Yep. C’mon and get up-- I made dinner and _we_ need to start scheming.”

She did so obediently, but only because she was still shocked, worn-out, and felt like she could eat a horse. And it still felt a little strange, a little uncomfortable to try, but it was important and she _did_ want to. Just before they sat down, Marianne paused to embrace her baby sister, voice reduced to a half-choked whisper.

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

It was truly, ridiculously, _impossibly_ difficult to pass the nights like this. Technically, Bog supposed that he still had free range of the cell, “free” being a rather incongruent word in that particular context. Still, he tried to move as little as possible. It hurt like hell, for one, and he didn’t want to give so much as an atom of satisfaction to the experimenters.

The mechanical eye still sat in front of him, its colored pinpricks of light shining in the dark, empty lab like embedded jewels. Just out of reach, never tiring or weakening, lifeless and cruel just like the rest of this place. He loathed the thing, loathed _all_ the human-made instruments and cowardly ridiculousness. He focused on that. Indulging in the thought of feeling cornered, helpless, pained--it would do nothing. Anger was a merciful distraction, and there certainly was no shortage of it. 

Just _who_ did that grandiose, incapable, miserably-obtuse git mistake himself for? The sight of the green-clad idiot made his blood burn as it was, but seeing him hover over Marianne like that, so obviously invasive and disrespectful to her-- The mortal simply hadn’t a single redeeming feature to speak of. Which was utterly unsurprising, of course, but Bog found that every slight to his friend caused a surge of protective anger in him.

He’d been glad to see her, too. Even though she’d been unable to interact with him, let alone free him, he noticed all of her glances and worried, frustrated scowls. All he could do was hope for better luck tomorrow. And try not to think too much about his growing attachment.

No matter how much he'd warned himself and imagined every possible way Marianne could betray him, he had warmed to her. In spite of everything, having her around made the days tolerable. She was his only hope, but he was confusing desperation with fondness, her kindness for affection. It was all so uncertain, so complicated. He hated it.

Bog forced himself to settle down on the unforgiving floor.  He was exhausted enough to ignore his discomfort, instead focusing on thoughts of freedom as he drifted off.

He dreamt of her coming back in the dead of night, the cavernous room lit with silvery, inexplicable moonlight. She seemed to glow in it, making him catch his breath in anticipation. Grasping two bars, Marianne rent them apart as though they were nothing, and he couldn't help but reach for her.

Her hands were small, warm and perfectly laced with his own as she tugged him backwards and over to the door. They burst, almost _flew_ through corridors, her laugh seeming to float on the wind, intangible and distant and gone as soon as he noticed it. The sights rushed by in an unimportant blur before bursting into cool, clean night air. He could’ve wept at the sight, the _feeling._ The sky above was like a welcoming friend, and then there was her, breathless and smiling in the dim blue light.

 _Bright_ , was the solitary, awed thought in his mind. Bright like the stars he swore by, dark like the spaces between, strong and brave and lovely beyond measure.

She smiled at him, a sad smile, all while backing away to return to the building. It pricked him with sadness too, but this was as it should be.

Before she was quite to the doorway, he mustered up the courage to go after her, to try and thank her. Her eyes widened, making him hesitate, but she grabbed at his arm and he felt her fear flow into him. Lightning struck behind them, artificial and graceless. It illuminated the pale face of the torturer--of Roland--staring emptily at them both, his possessive eyes glaring down like harsh, fluorescent lights.

Bog woke with a start, aching from the hard floor and the panicked beat of his heart.

 _Just a dream,_ he thought, relaxing and relieved.

 _You dreamt about her,_ he remembered, tensing all over again. _You think she’s lovely._

His eyes went wide and filled with the emptiness around him, and oh, _oh,_ he was in trouble.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooooooooooooooooooooooh my god, late again. Hope you guys enjoy this, and I can't apologize enough for the wait. It's been tricky getting myself to be productive lately, but I love this story and you guys really keep me going with all of your kind support!!!  
> The great escape happens next chapter, I promise. Will try to get that to you guys soon!


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